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FRIAR     ANSELMO 


AND    OTHER    POEMS, 

* 


BY 

JULIA    C.    R.    DORR. 


NEW-YORK: 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS. 
1879. 


Copyright,  1879,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


Press  of 
FRANCIS  HART  &  Co. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

co      FRIAR  ANSELMO 3 

^      THE  KING'S  ROSEBUD , 1 1 

cc      SOMEWHERE .   13 

35 

U     A  SECRET 14 

PERADVENTURE  17 

«*  RENA  —  A  LEGEND  OF  BRUSSELS 19 

in  WHAT  NEED  ? 35 

g  THE  Kiss 37 

WHAT  SHE  THOUGHT 39 

THIS  DAY 42 

ci  UNANSWERED 44 

jg  "  CHRISTUS  !  " 48 

^  THE  CLAY  TO  THE  ROSE 54 

ill  Two .56 

L-  EVENTIDE 60 

-J  To  THE  "  BOUQUET  CLUB  " 63 

AT  THE  LAST 65 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

MY  LOVERS 67 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  ORGAN-BUILDER 69 

AT  DAWN 77 

KING  IVAN'S  OATH 79 

IN  MEMORIAM 89 

WEAVING  THE  WEB 91 

^  RABBI  BENAIAH 94 

A  CHILD'S  THOUGHT 98 

"  GOD  KNOWS  " 101 

UNSOLVED 104 

FIVE  109 

QUIETNESS 112 

WINTER 114 

THE  "CHRISTUS"  OF  OBERAMMERGAU 115 

THE  MOUNTAIN  ROAD 1 16 

ENTERING  IN 119 

THE  DIFFERENCE 122 

THOU  KNOWEST 125 

A  FLOWER  FOR  THE  DEAD 126 

A  RED  ROSE 129 

MY  BIRTHDAY 131 

TWENTY-ONE 133 

THOMAS  MOORE  (MAY  28,  1779  — 1879) 136 

SINGING  IN  THE  DARK 139 


CONTENTS. 


SONNETS. 

PAGE. 

Two  SONNETS.    I. —  II 141 

To  ZULMA.     I. —  II 143 

MERCEDES 145 

SLEEP 146 

TO-DAY 147 

GRASS-GROWN 148 

AT  THE  TOMB 149 

AT  REST 150 

F.  A.  F 151 

Too  WIDE  ! 152 

RESURGAMUS 153 

IN  KING'S  CHAPEL 1 54 

THY  NAME 155 

THREE  DAYS.     I.— II.— Ill 156 

VERMONT 159 

A  LAST  WORD 177 


TO   S.   M.   D. 

T  BROUGHT  thee,  love,  the  first  pale  buds  of  spring, 
Frail  blooms  that  trembled  in  the  lonely  dells  ; 
Wild  violets,  mayhap,  or  nodding  bells 
Gathered  when  happy  birds  on  joyous  wing 
Fluttered  from  bough  to  bough  to  coo  and  sing. 
I  brought  thee  summer  roses,  such  as  grow 
In  our  <nvn  garden  ground,  and  do  not  know 
The  grace  of  tenderer  culture.      Now  I  bring 
The  early  fiowers  of  autumn  —  golden-rod 
Plucked  by  the  wayside,  asters  starry-eyed, 
With  here  and  there,  alas  !  a  crimson  leaf 
That  dropped,  untitnely,  on  the  waiting  sod. 
Dear  heart  .'  refuse  not  thou  this  later  sheaf 
From  fields  where  we  have  wandered  side  by  side. 


"  The  Maples,"  September, 


FRIAR    ANSELMO, 


FRIAR   ANSELMO. 

FRIAR  ANSELMO  for  a  secret  sin 
Sat  bowed  with  grief  the  convent  cell  within 
Nor  dared,  such  was  his  shame,  to  lift  his  eyes 
To  the  low  wall  whereon,  in  dreadful  guise, 
The  dead  CHRIST  hung  upon  the  cursed  tree, 
Frowning,  he  thought,  upon  his  misery. 
What  was  his  sin  it  matters  not  to  tell. 

But  he  was  young  and  strong,  the  records  say  ; 
Perhaps  he  wearied  of  his  narrow  cell ; 

Perhaps  he  longed  to  work,  as  well  as  pray; 

Perhaps  his  heart  too  warmly  beat  that  day ! 
Perhaps — for  life  is  long — the  weary  road 
That  he  must  travel,  bearing  as  a  load 
The  slow,  monotonous  hours  that,  one  by  one, 
Dragged  in  a  lengthening  chain  from  sun  to  sun, 
Appalled  his  eager  spirit,  and  his  vow 
Pressed  like  an  iron  hand  upon  his  brow. 
Perhaps  some  dream  of  love,  of  home,  of  wife, 
Had  stirred  this  tumult  in  his  lonely  life, 


4  FRIAR    ANSELMO. 

Tempting  his  soul  to  barter  heavenly  bliss, 
And  sell  its  birthright  for  a  woman's  kiss  ! 
At  all  events,  the  struggle  had  been  hard; 
And  as  a  bird  from  the  glad  ether  barred, 
So  had  he  beat  his  wings  till,  bruised  and  torn, 
He  wished  that  night  he  never  had  been  born ! 
And  still  the  dead  CHRIST  on  the  cursed  tree 
Seemed  but  to  mock  his  hopeless  misery; 
Still  Mary  mother  turned  her  eyes  away, 
Nor  saint  nor  angel  bent  to  hear  him  pray ! 

The  calm,  cold  moonlight  through  the  casement  shone; 

Weird  shadows  darkened  on  the  floor  of  stone; 

Without,  what  solemn  splendors !  and  within 

What  fearful  wrestlings  with  despair  and  sin  ! 

Sudden  and  loud  the  cloister  bell  outrang; 

Afar  a  door  swung  to  with  sullen  clang; 

And  overhead  he  heard  the  rhythmic  beat, 

The  measured  monotone  of  many  feet 

Seeking  the  chapel  for  the  midnight  prayer. 

Black  wings  seemed  hovering  round  him  in  the  air, 

Beating  him  back  as  with  a  stifled  moan 


FRIAR   ANSELMO.  5 

He  would  have  sought  the  holy  altar  stone. 
Then  with  a  swift,  sharp  cry,  prostrate  he  fell 
Before  the  crucifix.     "  The  gates  of  hell 
Shall  not  prevail  against  me  !  "  loud  he  cried, 
Stretching  his  arms  to  CHRIST,  the  crucified. 
"  By  Thy  dread  cross,  Thy  dying  agony, 
Thine  awful  passion,  LORD,  deliver  me ! " 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     The  taunting  demons  fled ; 
Through  the  dim  cell  a  wondrous  glory  spread  • 
And  all  the  air  was  filled  with  rare  perfumes 
Wafted  from  censers  rich  with  heavenly  blooms. 
Transfigured  stood  the  CHRIST  before  his  eyes, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  woven  in  Paradise, 
And  from  the  empty  cross  upon  the  wall 
Streamed  a  wide  splendor  that  encompassed  all! 
Was  it  a  dream  ?     Anselmo's  sight  grew  dim ; 
The  cloistered  chamber  seemed  to  reel  and  swim  ; 
Yet  well  his  spirit  knew  the  glorious  guest, 
And  all  his  manhood  rose  to  meet  the  test. 
"What  wilt  Thou  have  me,  LORD,  to  do?"  he  cried 
With  pallid  lips,  and  kissed  the  sacred  feet. 


6  FRIAR  ANSELMO. 

And  then  in  accents  strangely  calm,  yet  sweet, 
These  words  he  heard  from  CHRIST,  the  crucified, 
The  pitying  CHRIST  his  inmost  soul  who  read, 
With  all  its  wild  unrest,  its  doubt  and  dread : 
"  MAKE  THOU  A  COPY  OF  MY  HOLY  WORD  ! " 
Then  mystic  presences  about  him  stirred ; 
The  vision  faded.     At  the  dawn  of  day 
Prostrate  and  pallid  in  the  dusk  he  lay. 
Was  it  a  dream  ?     GOD  knows  !     The  narrow  cell 
Wore  the  old  aspect  he  had  learned  so  well, 
And  from  the  crucifix  upon  the  wall 
No  glory  streamed  illuminating  all ! 
Yet  still  a  subtile  fragrance  filled  the  room ; 
And  looking  round  him  in  the  soft,  gray  gloom, 
Anselmo  saw  upon  the  fretted  floor 
An  eagle's  quill  that  this  grave  legend  bore: 
"  He  works  most  nobly  for  his  fellow-men 
Who  gives  My  word  to  them,  by  tongue  or  pen  !  " 

Henceforth  Anselmo  prayed,  but  worked  as  well, 
Nor  felt  the  bondage  of  his  cloister  cell ; 
For  all  his  soul  was  filled  with  high  intent, 


FRIAR    ANSELMO,  y 

He  had  no  dream  save  its  accomplishment — 
To  make  a  copy  of  the  Holy  Word, 
Fairer  than  eye  had  seen,  or  ear  had  heard, 
Or  heart  conceived  of  !     Day  by  day  he  wrought, 
His  fingers  guided  by  a  single  thought; 
Forming  each  letter  with  the  tenderest  care, 
With  points  of  richest  color  here  and  there ; 
With  birds  on  swaying  boughs,  and  butterflies 
Poised  on  gay  wings  o'er  sprays  of  eglantine; 
With  tangled  tracery  of  flower  and  vine 
Through  which  gleamed  cherub  faces,  half  divine; 
With  fading  leaves  that  drift  when  Summer  dies, 
And  angels  floating  down  the  evening  skies — 
Each  word  an  orison,  each  line  a  prayer! 
Slowly  the  work  went  on  from  day  to  day; 
The  seasons  came  and  went;  May  followed  May; 
Year  after  year  passed  by  with  stately  tread 
To  join  the  countless  legions  of  the  dead, 
Till  Fra  Anselmo,  wan  and  bowed  with  age, 
Bent,  a  gray  monk,  above  the  parchment  page. 
Death  waited  till  he  wrote  the  last  fair  line, 
Then  touched  his  hand  and  closed  the  Book  Divine! 


POEMS. 


THE   KING'S   ROSEBUD. 

ONLY  a  blushing  rosebud,  folding  up 
Such  wealth  of  sweetness  in  its  dewy  cup 
That  the  whole  air  was  like  rare  incense  flung 
From  golden  censers  round  high  altars  swung! 
One  day  the  king  passed  by  with  stately  tread, 
And,  reaching  forth  his  hand,  he  lightly  said, 
"  All  sweets  are  mine ;  therefore  this  rose  I  take, 
And  wear  it  in  my  bosom  for  Love's  sake." 
Then,  while  the  king  passed  on  with  smiling  face, 
The  sweet  rose  gloried  in  its  pride  of  place. 

But  ah !  the  deeds  that  in  Love's  name  are  done ! 
The  woeful  wrack  wrought  underneath  the  sun ! 
Still  with  that  smile  upon  his  lip,  the  king 
Laid  his  rash  hand  upon  the  beauteous  thing; 


12  THE    KING'S   ROSEBUD. 

In  hot  haste  tore  the  crimson  leaves  apart, 
And  drained  the  sweetness  from  its  glowing  heart; 
Seared  the  soft  petals  with  his  fiery  breath, 
Then  tossed  it  from  him  to  ignoble  death ! 
When  next  with  idle  steps  I  passed  that  way, 
Prone  in  the  mire  the  king's  fair  rosebud  lay. 


SOMEWHERE. 

How  can  I  cease  to  pray  for  thee?     Somewhere 
In  God's  great  universe  thou  art  to-day: 

Can  He  not  reach  thee  with  His  tender  care  ? 
Can  He  not  hear  me  when  for  thee  I  pray  ? 

What  matters  it  to  Him  who  holds  within 
The  hollow  of  His  hand  all  worlds,  all  space, 

That  thou  art  done  with  earthly  pain  and  sin? 
Somewhere  within  His  ken  thou  hast  a  place. 

Somewhere  thou  livest  and  hast  need  of  Him : 
Somewhere  thy  soul  sees  higher  heights  to  climb; 

And  somewhere  still  there  may  be  valleys  dim 
That  thou  must  pass  to  reach  the  hills  sublime. 

Then  all  the  more,  because  thou  canst  not  hear 
Poor  human  words  of  blessing,  will  I  pray, 

O  true,  brave  heart!     God  bless  thee,  wheresoe'er 
In  His  great  universe  thou  art  to-day ! 


A  SECRET. 


IT  is  your  secret  and  mine,  love! 

Ah,  me!  how  the  dreary  rain 
With  a  slow  persistence,  all  day  long 

Dropped  on  the  window  pane ! 
The  chamber  was  weird  with  shadows 

And  dark  with  the  deepening  gloom 
Where  you,  in  your  royal  womanhood, 

Lay  waiting  for  the  tomb. 

They  had  robed  you  all  in  white,  love; 

In  your  hair  was  a  single  rose — 
A  marble  rose  it  might  well  have  been 

In  its  cold  and  still  repose! 


A    SECRET.  15 

O,  paler  than  yonder  carven  saint, 

And  calm  as  the  angels  are, 
You  seemed  so  near  me,  my  beloved, 

Yet  were,  alas,  so  far! 

I  do  not  know  if  I  wept,  love ; 

But  my  soul,  rose  up  and  said, — 
"  My  heart  shall  speak  unto  her  heart, 

Though  here  she  is  lying — dead! 
I  will  give  her  a  last  love-token 

That  shall  be  to  her  a  sign 
In  the  dark  grave — or  beyond  it!  — 

Of  this  deathless  love  of  mine. 

So  I  sought  me  a  little  scroll,  love; 

And  thereon,  in  eager  haste, 
Lest  another's  eye  should  read  them 

Some  mystic  words  I  traced. 
Then  close  in  your  clasped  fingers, 

Close  in  your  waxen  hand, 
I  placed  the  scroll  for  an  amulet, 

Sure  you  would  understand ! 


16  A    SECRET. 

The  secret  is  yours  and  mine,  love ! 

Only  we  two  may  know 
What  words  shine  clear  in  the  darkness, 

Of  your  grave  so  green  and  low. 
But  if  when  we  meet  hereafter, 

In  the  dawn  of  some  fairer  day, 
You  whisper  those  mystical  words,  love, 

It  is  all  I  would  have  you  say ! 


PERADVENTURE. 

I  AM  thinking  to-night  of  the  little  child 
That  lay  on  my  breast  three  summer  days, 

Then  swiftly,  silently,  dropped  from  sight, 
While  my  soul  cried  out  in  sore  amaze. 

It  is  fifteen  years  ago  to-night ; 

Somewhere,  I  know,  he  has  lived  them  through, 
Perhaps  with  never  a  thought  or  dream 

Of  the  mother-heart  he  never  knew! 

Is  he  yet  but  a  babe  ?  or  has  he  grown 
To  be  like  his  brothers,  fair  and  tall, 

With  a  clear  bright  eye,  and  a  springing  step, 
And  a  voice  that  rings  like  a  bugle  call? 

I  loved  him.     The  rose  in  his  waxen  hand 
Was  wet  with  the  dew  of  my  falling  tears; 
3 


18  PERADVENTURE. 

I  have  kept  the  thought  of  my  baby's  grave 
Through  all  the  length  of  these  changeful  years. 

Yet  the  love  I  gave  him  was  not  like  that 

I  give  to-day  to  my  other  boys, 
Who  have  grown  beside  me,  and  turned  to  me 

In  all  their  griefs  and  in  all  their  joys. 

Do  you  think  he  knows  it  ?     I  wonder  much 
If  the  dead  are  passionless,  cold  and  dumb ; 

If  into  the  calm  of  the  deathless  years 
No  thrill  of  a  human  love  may  come ! 

Perhaps  sometimes  from  the  upper  air 

He  has  seen  me  walk  with  his  brothers  three  ; 

Or  felt  in  the  tender  twilight  hour 

The  breath  of  the  kisses  they  gave  to  me ! 

Over  his  birthright,  lost  so  soon, 

Perhaps  he  has  sighed  as  the  swift  years  flew; 
O  child  of  my  heart !  you  shall  find  somewhere 

The  love  that  on  earth  you  never  knew ! 


RENA. 

(A   LEGEND   OF   BRUSSELS.) 


ST.  GUDULA'S   bells  were   chiming  for  the  midnight, 

sad  and  slow, 
In  the  ancient  town  of  Brussels,  many  and   many  a 

year  ago, 

And  St.  Michael,  poised  so  grandly  on  his  lofty,  airy 

height, 
Seemed   transfigured  in  the   glory  of  the  full  moon's 

tender  light, 

When,  a  fair  and  saintly  maiden,  crowned  with  locks 

of  palest  gold, 
Rena  stood   beside  her  lover,  son  of  Hildebrand  the 

Bold. 


20  RENA. 

She  with  grief  and  tears  was  pallid;  but  his  face  was 

hard  and  stern: 
All  the  passion  of  his  being  in  his  dark  eyes  seemed 

to  burn. 

"  Never  dream  that  I  will  give  thee  back  thy  plighted 

faith,"  he  cried, 
"  By  St.  Michael's   sword  I  swear  it,  thou,  my  love, 

shalt  be  my  bride  !  " 

"  Nay,    but    hear   me,"    she    responded ;    "  hear    the 

words  that  I  must  speak; 
I    must    speak,  and   thou   must   hearken,  though   my 

heart  is  like  to  break. 

"  Yestermorn,  as  I  sat  spinning  blithely  at  my  cot 
tage  door, 

Straightway  fell  a  stately  shadow  in  the  sunshine  on 
the  floor; 

"And  a  figure  stood  before  me,  so  majestic  and  so 
grand, 


REN  A.  21 

That  I  knew  it  in  a  moment  for  the  mighty  Hilde- 
brand ;  — 

"  Stood  and  gazed  on  me  till  downward  at  my  feet 
the  distaff  dropped, 

And  in  all  my  veins  the  pulsing  of  the  swift  life-cur 
rent  stopped. 

"  '  Thou  art  Rena,'  then  he  uttered,  and  he  swore  a 

dreadful  oath, 
And   the    tempest  of  his  anger  beat  on   me   and  on 

us  both. 

" '  She   who    thinks    to    wed  with  Volmar   must   have 

lands  and  gold,'  said  he, 
'  Or  must   come   of  noble   lineage,  fit   to  mate  with 

mine  and  me  ! 

" '  Thou    art    but    a    peasant    maiden,  empty-handed, 

lowly  born ; 
All  the  ladies  of  my  castle  would  look  down  on  thee 

with  scorn. 


22  RENA. 

11 '  Even  he  will  weary  of  thee  when  his  passion  once 

is  spent, 
Vainly  cursing  her  who  doomed   him   to    an    endless 

discontent !  ' 

"  Then    I,  trembling,  rose    up    slowly,  and    I   looked 

him  in  the  face, 
Though  the  dreadful  frown  it  wore  seemed  to  darken 

all  the  place. 

"  '  Sir,  I  thank  you  for  this  warning,'  said  I,  speak 
ing  low  and  clear, 

'  But  the  laughter  of  your  ladies  I  must  teach  my 
heart  to  bear. 

"  '  For  the  rest — your  son  is  noble  —  and  my  simple 

womanhood 
He  will  hold   in    loving   honor,  as  a   saint   the   holy 

rood  ! ' 

"  Oh !  then  his  stern  face  whitened,  and  a  bitter 
laugh  laughed  he : 


RENA.  23 

'  Truly  this   my  son  is  noble,  and   he  shall   not  wed 
with  thee. 

" '  Hear  rny  words  now,  and   remember !   for  by  this 

good  sword  I  swear, 
And   by  Michael   standing  yonder,  watching  us  from 

upper  air, 

" '  If  he    dares    to   place  a  wedding-ring   upon   your 

dowerless  hand, 
On  his  head  shall  fall  a  father's  curse — the  curse  of 

Hildebrand!' 

"  O,  my  Volmar !     Then  the  earth  rocked,  and  I  fell 

down  in  a  swoon; 
When  I  woke  the  room  was  silent ;  it  was   past   the 

hour  of  noon; 

"  And  I  waited  for  thy  coming,  as  the  captive  waits 

for  death, 
With  a  mingled  dread  and  longing,  and  a  half-abated 

breath  !  " 


24  RENA. 

Straight  the  young  man  bowed   before  her,  as  before 

a  holy  shrine  : 
"  Never   hand    of  high-born    lady    was    more    richly 

dowered  than  thine ! 

"What  care  I  for  gold  or  honors,  or — my — father's 

—  curse?"  he  said; 
But   the  words   died   out    in   shudders,  and   his   face 

grew  like  the  dead. 

Then  she  twined  her  white  arms  round  him,  and  she 

murmured,  sweet  and  low, 
As  the  night  wind  breathing  softly  over  banks  where 

violets  blow: 

" '  He  who  is  accursed  of  father,  he  shall  be  accursed 

of  God,' 
Long    ago   said   one   who   followed   where    the   holy 

prophets  trod. 

';  Kiss  me  once,  then,  O  my  Volmar !  just  once  more, 
my  Volmar  dear, 


RENA.  25 

Even  as  you  would  kiss  my  white  lips  if  I  lay  upon 
my  bier! 

"  For  a  gulf  as  dark  as  death  has  opened  wide  'twixt 

thee  and  me; 
Neither  thou   nor  I  can  cross  it,  and  thy  wife  I  may 

not  be !  " 


ii. 

ONCE   again   the  bells  of  midnight   chimed   from  St. 

Gudula's  towers, 
While  St.  Michael  watched  the  city  slumbering  through 

the  ghostly  hours. 

But  no  slumber  came  to  Rena  where  she  moaned  in 

bitter  pain, 
For  the  anguish  of  that  parting  wrought  its  work  on 

heart  and  brain. 

Suddenly   the    air    grew  heavy  as  with    magical   per 
fume, 
4 


26  RENA. 

And  a  weird   and  wondrous   splendor  filled   the   dim 
and  silent  room. 

In  the  middle  of  the  chamber  stood  a  lady  fair  and 

sweet, 
With    bright    tresses    falling  softly   to   her   small   and 

sandaled  feet. 

Flushed    her    cheeks  were    as   a  wild    rose,  and    the 

glory  of  her  eyes 
Was   the   laughing    light   and   glory  of    the   kindling 

morning  skies. 

Airy   robes    of   lightest    tissue    from    her   white    arms 

floated  free ; 
They  seemed  woven  of  the  mist  that  curls  above  the 

azure  sea, 

Wrought  in  curious  devices,  star  and  wheel  and  leaf 

and  flower, 
That,  like   frost   upon   a   window-pane,  might   vanish 

in  an  hour. 


RENA.  27 

In  her  hands  she  bore  a  cushion,  quaintly  fashioned, 
strangely  set 

With  small  silver  pins  that  spanned  it  like  a  branch 
ing  coronet; 

And  from  threads  of  finest  texture  swung  light  bob 
bins  to  and  fro, 

As  the  lady  stood  illumined  in  the  weird  and  won 
drous  glow. 

Not   a  single  word   she   uttered;  but,  as   silent   as  a 

shade, 
Down    the   room  she   swiftly  glided   and   beside   the 

startled  maid 

Knelt,  a  radiant  vision,  smiling  into  Rena's  wonder 
ing  eyes, 

Giving  arch  yet  gracious  answer  to  her  tremulous 
surprise. 

Then  she  laid  the  satin  cushion  on  the  wondering 
maiden's  knee, 


28  REN  A. 

And  to  all  her  mute  bewilderment,  no  syllable  spake 
she. 

But,  as  in  and  out  and  round  about,  the   silver  pins 

among, 
Flashed  the  white  hand  of  the  lady,  and  the  shining 

bobbins  swung, 

Lo !  a  web  of  fairy  lightness  like  the  misty  robe  she 

wore, 
Swiftly  grew   beneath   her  fingers,  drifting   downward 

to  the  floor! 

And    as    Rena   looked    and  wondered,  inch   by  inch 

the  marvel  grew, 
Till    the    eastern    windows    brightened    as    the    gray 

dawn  struggled  through. 

Then    the    lady's    hand    touched    Rena's,     and     she 

pointed  far  away, 
Where  the   palace  towers  were  gleaming  in    the  firste 

red  light  of  day. 


REN  A.  29 

But  when  once  again  the   maiden  turned  her  glance 

within  the  room, 
With  the  lady  fair  had  vanished  all  the  splendor  and 

perfume. 

Still  the   satin   cushion   lay  there,  quaintly  fashioned, 

strangely  set 
With  the  silver  pins  that  spanned  it  like  a  branching 

coronet ; 

Still  the  light  web  she  had  woven  lay  in  drifts  upon 

the  floor, 
Like   the    mist  wreaths   resting   softly  on  some   lone, 

enchanted  shore ! 


in. 

SLOWLY    Rena    raised   the   cushion,    with    her    sweet 

eyes  shining  clear, 
Lightly  tossed    the    fairy   bobbins,    half  in    gladness, 

half  in  fear. 


30  RENA. 

Ah !   not  vain    had  been  her  watching  as  the  lovely 

lady  wrought; 
All  the  magic  of  her  fingers  her  own   cunning   hand 

had  caught! 

Many  a  day  above  the  cushion  Rena's  peerless  head 

was  bent, 
And  through   many  a  solemn   night   she   labored   on 

with  sweet  intent. 

For,    mayhap,    the    mystic    marvels    that    she    wove 

might  bring  her  gold — 
A  fair  dowry  fit  to    match   the   pride  of   Hildebrand 

the  Bold! 

Then  she  braided  up  her  long  hair,  and  put   on  her 

russet  gown, 
And    with    wicker    basket    laden    passed    she   swiftly 

through  the  town, 

To  the  palace  where  Queen  Ildegar,  with   dames  of 
high  degree, 


RENA.  31 

In  a  lofty  oriel  window  sat,  the  beauteous   morn   to 

see. 

In    the    door-way  she    stood   meekly,  till    the   queen 

said,  "  Maiden  fair, 
What  have  you  in  yonder  basket  that  you  carry  with 

such  care  ?  " 

Eagerly    she    raised    her   blue    eyes,   hovering  smiles 

and  tears  between, 
Then    across    the   room   she  glided,  and  knelt   down 

before  the  queen. 

Lifting    up    the  wicker    cover,    "  Saints   in    heaven ! " 

cried  Ildegar, 
"  Here  are  tissues  fit  for  angels,  wrought  with  wreath 

and  point  and  star, 

"  In  most  curious  devices !  Never  saw  I  aught  so 
rare — 

Where  found  you  these  frail  webs  woven  of  the  light 
est  summer  air  ?  " 


32  REN  A. 

"  Well  they  may  be  fit  for  angels,"  said  she,  under 
neath  her  breath ; 

"  O  my  lady,  hear  a  story  that  is  strange  and  true 
as  death." 

But  ere  yet  the  tale  was  ended,  up  rose  good  Queen 

Ildegar, 
And   she    sent   her  knights   and   pages  to   the   castle 

riding  far. 

"  Bring    me    Hildebrand    and    Volmar,  ere    the    sun 

goes  down  !  "  she  cried, 
"  Ho !    my   ladies,    for   a   wedding,  and    your    queen 

shall  bless  the  bride  ! 

"  I  will  buy  these  airy  wonders,  and  this   maiden   in 

her  hand 
Shall  a  dowry  hold   as   royal   as   the   noblest   in   the 

land." 

So  they  combed  her  shining  tresses,  and  they  brought 
her  robes  of  silk, 


RENA.  33 

Broidered  thick  with  gold  and  silver,  on  a  ground  as 
white  as  milk. 

But  she  whispered,  "  Sweetest  ladies,  let  me  wear  my 

russet  gown, 
That    I    wore    this   happy    morning    walking   blithely 

through  the  town. 

"  I  am   but  a  peasant   maiden,  all    unused    to    grand 

estate, 
And  for  robes  of  silken   splendor,  dearest   ladies,  let 

me  wait ! " 

Then    the    good    queen,    smiling    brightly,    from    the 

wicker  basket  took 
Lightest    web    of    quaintest    pattern,    and    its    filmy 

folds  outshook. 

With    her  own  white    hand    she    laid  it    over  Rena's 

golden  hair, 
And  she  cried,  "  Oh,  look,  my  ladies !     Ne'er  before 

was  bride  so  fair !  " 

5 


34  RENA. 

Ladies  !    when  you  wear  your  Brussels   laces,  costlier 

far  than  gold, 
Think    of  Rena,  and   her   lover,  son    of   Hildebrand 

the  Bold! 


WHAT    NEED  ? 

"  What  need  has  the  singer  to  sing? 
And  why  should  your  poet  to-day 
His  pale  little  garland  of  poesy  bring, 

On  the  altar  to  lay  ? 

High-priests  of  song  the  harp-strings  swept 
Ages  before  he  smiled  or  wept !  " 

What  need  have  the  roses  to  bloom  ? 

And  why  do  the  tall  lilies  grow  ? 
And  why  do  the  violets  shed  their  perfume 

When  night-winds  breathe  low  ? 
They  are  no  whit  more  bright  and  fair 
Than  flowers  that  breathed  in  Eden's  air! 

What  need  have  the  stars  to  shine  on  ? 

Or  the  clouds  to  grow  red  in  the  west, 
When  the  sun,  like  a  king,  from  the  fields  he  has  won, 

Goes  grandly  to  rest? 
No  brighter  they  than  stars  and  skies 
That  greeted  Eve's  sweet,  wondering  eyes ! 

35 


36  WHAT   NEED? 

What  need  has  the  eagle  to  soar 

So  proudly  straight  up  to  the  sun? 
Or  the  robin  such  jubilant  music  to  pour 

When  day  is  begun  ? 
The  eagles  soared,  the  robins  sung, 
As  high,  as  sweet,  when  earth  was  young ! 

What  need,  do  you  ask  me  ?     Each  day 
Hath  a  song  and  a  prayer  of  its  own, 
As  each  June  hath  its  crown  of  fresh  roses,  each  May 

Its  bright  emerald  throne ! 
Its  own  high  thought  each  age  shall  stir, 
Each  needs  its  own  interpreter! 

And  thou,  O,  my  poet,  sing  on  ! 

Sing  on  until  love  shall  grow  old  ; 
Till  patience  and  faith  their  last  triumphs  have  won, 

And  truth  is  a  tale  that  is  told  ! 
Doubt  not,  thy  song  shall  still  be  new 
While  life  endures  and  God  is  true ! 


THE    KISS. 

WHEN  you  lay  before  me  dead, 

In  such  pallid  rest, 
On  those  passive  lips  of  thine 

Not  one  kiss  I  pressed! 

Did  you  wonder — looking  down 
From  some  higher  sphere — 

Knowing  how  we  two  had  loved 
Many  and  many  a  year  ? 

Did  you  think  me  strange  and  cold 

When  I  did  not  touch, 
Even  with  reverent  finger-tips, 

What  I  had  loved  so  much  ? 

Ah !  when  last  you  kissed  me,  dear, 
Know  you  what  you  said  ? 


452644 


38  THE    K!SS. 

"  Take  this  last  kiss,  my  beloved, 
Soon  shall  I  be  dead! 

"  Keep  it  for  a  solemn  sign, 
Through  our  love's  long  night, 

Till  you  give  it  back  again 
On  some  morning  bright." 

So  I  gave  you  no  caress; 

But,  remembering  this, 
Warm  upon  my  lips  I  keep 

Your  last  living  kiss ! 


WHAT   SHE   THOUGHT. 

MARION  showed  me  her  wedding  gown 

And  her  veil  of  gossamer  lace  to-night, 
And  the  orange-blooms  that  to-morrow  morn 

Shall  fade  in  her  soft  hair's  golden  light. 
But  Philip  came  to  the  open  door: 

Like  the  heart  of  a  wild-rose  glowed  her  cheek, 
And  they  wandered  off  through  the  garden  paths 

So  blest  that  they  did  not  care  to  speak. 

I  wonder  how  it  seems  to  be  loved ; 

To  know  you  are  fair  in  some  one's  eyes; 
That  upon  some  one  your  beauty  dawns 

Every  day  as  a  new  surprise  ; 
To  know,  that,  whether  you  weep  or  smile, 

Whether  your  mood  be  grave  or  gay, 
Somebody  thinks  you,  all  the  while, 

Sweeter  than  any  flower  of  May. 

39 


40  WHAT  SHE    THOUGHT. 

I  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  love: 

That,  I  think,  would  be  sweeter  far, 
To  know  that  one  out  of  all  the  world 

Was  lord  of  your  life,  your  king,  your  star. 
They  talk  of  love's  sweet  tumult  and  pain : 

1  am  not  sure  that  I  understand, 
Though — a  thrill  ran  down  to  my  finger-tips 

Once  when — somebody — touched  my  hand  ! 

I  wonder  what  it  would  be  to  dream 

Of  a  child  that  might  one  day  be  your  own; 
Of  the  hidden  springs  of  your  life  a  part, 

Flesh  of  your  flesh,  and  bone  of  your  bone. 
Marion  stooped  one  day  to  kiss 

A  beggar's  babe  with  a  tender  grace; 
While  some  sweet  thought,  like  a  prophecy, 

Looked  from  her  pure  Madonna  face. 

I  wonder  what  it  must  be  to  think 
To-morrow  will  be  your  wedding-day, 

And  you,  in  the  radiant  sunset  glow 
Down  fragrant  flowery  paths  will  stray, 


WHAT   SHE    THOUGHT.  41 

As  Marion  does  this  blessed  night, 
With  Philip,  lost  in  a  blissful  dream. 

Can  she  feel  his  heart  through  the  silence  beat  ? 
Does  he  see  her  eyes  in  the  starlight  gleam  ? 

Questioning  thus,  my  days  go  on ; 

But  never  an  answer  comes  to  me: 
All  love's  mysteries,  sweet  as  strange, 

Sealed  away  from  my  life  must  be. 
Yet  still  I  dream,  O  heart  of  mine ! 

Of  a  beautiful  city  that  lies  afar; 
And  there,  some  time,  I  shall  drop  the  mask, 

And  be  shapely  and  fair  as  others  are. 


THIS    DAY. 

I  WONDER  what  is  this   day  to  you, 

Looking  down  from  the  upper  skies ! 
Is  there  a  pang  at  your  gentle  heart  ? 

Is  there  a  shade  in  your  tender  eyes  ? 
Do  you  think  up  there  of  the  whispered  words 

That  thrilled  your  soul  in  the  long  ago  ? 
Does  ever  a  haunting  undertone 

Blend  with  the  chantings  sweet  and  low  ? 

When  this  day  dawned  (if  where  you  are 

Skies  grow  red  when  the  morn  is  near) 
Did  you  know  that  before  its  close 

The  love  once  yours  would  be  on  its  bier  ? 
Did  you  know  that  another's  lip 

Would  redden  with  kisses  once  your  own, 
And  the  golden  cup  of  a  younger  life 

O'erflow  with  the  wine  once  yours  alone? 


THIS   DAY.  43 

Do  you  remember  ?     Ah !  my  saint, 

Bend  your  ear  from  the  ether  blue  ! 
Have  you  risen  to  heights  so  far 

That  earth  and  its  loves  are  nought  to  you  ? 
Do  you  care  that  your  place  is  filled  ? 

Does  it  matter  that  now  at  last 
The  turf  above  you  has  grown  so  deep 

That  its  shadow  overlies  your  past  ? 

O,  beloved,  I  may  not  know! 

Heaven  is  afar,  and  the  grave  is  dumb, 
And  out  of  the  silence  so  profound 

Neither  token  nor  voice  may  come ! 
We  try  to  think  that  we  understand; 

But  whether  you  wake,  or  whether  you  sleep, 
Or  whether  our  deeds  are  aught  to  you, 

Is  still  a  mystery  strange  and  deep  ! 


UNANSWERED. 

WHERE  mountain-peaks  rose  far  and  high 
Into  the  blue,  unclouded  sky, 
And  waves  of  green,  like  billowy  seas, 
Tossed  proudly  in  the  freshening  breeze, 

I  rode  one  morning,  late  in  June. 
The  glad  winds  sang  a  pleasant  tune; 
The  air,  like  draughts  of  rarest  wine, 
Made  every  breath  a  joy  divine. 

With  roses  all  the  way  was  bright; 
Yet  there  upon  that  upland  height 
The  darlings  of  the  early  spring — 
Blue  violets — were  blossoming. 

And  all  the  meadows,  wide  unrolled, 
Were  green  and  silver,  green  and  gold, 


UNANSWERED.  45 

Where  buttercups  and  daisies  spun 
Their  shining  tissues  in  the  sun. 

Over  its  shallow,  pebbly  bed, 
A  sparkling  river  gayly  sped, 
Nor  cared  that  deeper  waters  bore 
A  grander  freight  from  shore  to  shore. 

It  sung,  it  danced,  it  laughed,  it  played, 
In  sunshine  now  and  now  in  shade  ; 
While  every  gnarled  tree  joyed  to  make 
A  greener  garland  for  its  sake. 

Deep  peace  was  in  the  summer  air, 
A  peace  all  Nature  seemed  to  share; 
Yet  even  there  I  could  not  flee 
The  shadow  of  life's  mystery  ! 

A  farm-house  stood  beside  the  way, 
Low-roofed  and  rambling,  quaint  and  gray ; 
And  where  the  friendly  door  swung  wide 
Red  roses  climbed  on  either  side. 


46  UNANSWERED. 

And  thither,  down  the  winding  road 
Near  which  the  sparkling  river  flowed, 
In  groups,  in  pairs,  the  neighbors  pressed, 
Each  in  his  Sunday  raiment  dressed. 

A  sober  calm  was  on  each  face ; 
Sweet  stillness  brooded  o'er  the  place; 
Yet  something  of  a  festal  air 
The  youths  and  maidens  seemed  to  wear. 

But,  as  I  passed,  an  idle  breeze 
Swept  through  the  quivering  maple-trees  ; 
Chased  by  the  winds  in  merry  rout, 
A  fair,  light  curtain  floated  out. 

And  this  I  saw  :  a  quiet  room 
Adorned  with  flowers  of  richest  bloom — 
A  lily  here,  a  garland  there — 
Fragrance  and  silence  everywhere. 

Then  on  I  rode.     But  if  a  bride 
Should  there  her  happy  blushes  hide, 


UNANSWERED.  47 

Or  if  beyond  my  vision  lay 

Some  pale  face  shrouded  from  the  day, 

I  could  not  tell.     O  Joy  and  Pain, 
Your  voices  join  in  one  refrain ! 
So  like  ye  are,  we  may  not  know 
If  this  be  gladness,  this  be  woe ! 


"CHRISTUS!" 

OVER  the  desolate  sea-side  town 
With  a  terrible  tumult  the  night  came  down, 
And  the  fierce  wind  swept  through  the  empty  street. 
With  the  drifting  snow  for  a  winding-sheet. 
Elsie,  the  fisherman's  daughter,  in  bed 
Lay  and  listened  in  awe  and  dread, 
But  sprang  to  her  feet  in  sudden  fear 
When  over  the  tempest,  loud  and  clear, 
A  voice  cried,  "  Christus !  " 

"  Christus !  Christus !  "  and  nothing  more. 
Was  it  a  cry  at  the  cottage-door  ? 
She  left  her  chamber  \\ith  flying  feet; 
She  loosened  the  bolts  with  fingers  fleet ; 
She  lifted  the  latch,  but  only  the  din 

48 


"CHRISTUS/"  49 

Of  the  furious  storm  and  the  snow  swept  in. 
She  looked  without :  not  a  soul  was  there, 
But  still  rang  out  on  the  startled  air 
The  strange  cry,  "  Christus !  " 

«  Christus  !  Christus  !  "     She  slept  at  last, 

Though  the  old  house  rocked  in  the  wintry  blast; 

And  when  she  awoke  the  world  was  still, 

A  wide,  white  silence  from  sea  to  hill. 

No  creature  stirred  in  the  morning  glow ; 

There  was  not  a  footprint  in  the  snow; 

Yet  again  through  the  hush,  as  faint  and  far 

As  if  it  came  from  another  star, 

A  voice  sighed,  "  Christus  !  " 

"  Christus  !  Christus  ! "     Who  can  it  be, 
O  Christ  our  Lord,  that  is  calling  Thee 
In  a  foreign  tongue,  with  a  woe  as  wild 
As  that  of  some  lost,  forsaken  child  ? 
She  turned  from  the  window  with  startled  gaze: 
She  clasped  her  hands  in  a  pale  amaze, 
Hearkening  still,  till  again  she  heard, 
7 


50  "CHRISTUS!" 

As  in  a  waking  dream,  the  word — 

That  strange  word,  "  Christus !  " 

Then  over  the  hill  with  weary  feet 
She  toiled  through  the  drifts  to  the  village-street. 
The  villagers  gathered  in  eager  haste, 
And  all  day  long  in  the  snowy  waste 
They  sought  in  vain  for  the  one  who  cried 
To  Him  who  of  old  was  crucified : 
Then,  turning  away  with  a  laugh,  they  said, 
"  'T  was  only  the  wild  wind  overhead, 
Your  cry  of  '  Christus  ! '  " 

She  watched  their  going  with  earnest  eyes : 
Hark !  what  voice  to  the  taunt  replies  ? 
The  trees  were  still  as  if  struck  with  death; 
The  wind  was  soft  as  a  baby's  breath ; 
The  sobbing  sea  was  asleep  at  last, 
Scourged  no  more  by  the  furious  blast; 
Yet,  surely  as  ever  from  human  tongue 
A  cry  of  grief  or  despair  was  wrung, 

Some  voice  sighed,  "  Christus  !  " 


«  CHRISTUS  I"  51 

Burned  on  her  cheek  a  sudden  flame 
As  her  heart's  strong  throbbings  went  and  came, 
And  she  stood  alone  on  the  lonely  shore, 
Gazing  the  wide  black  waters  o'er. 
"  Whether  it  comes  from  heaven  or  hell, 
This  voice  I  have  learned  to  know  too  well — 
Whether  from  lips  alive  or  dead, 
Or  from  the  hovering  air,"  she  said  — 
"  Whether  it  comes  from  sea  or  land, 
I  will  not  sleep  till  I  understand 
This  cry  of  '  Christus ! '  " 

"  Christus  !  Christus  !  "     Faint  and  slow 
Rose  the  wail  from  the  drifted  snow 
Under  a  low-browed,  beetling  rock, 
Strong  to  withstand  the  whirlwind's  shock. 
There,  in  the  heart  of  the  snowy  mound, 
The  buried  form  of  a  man  she  found  — 
A  Spanish  sailor,  with  beard  of  brown 
Over  his  red  scarf  flowing  down, 
And  jeweled  ears  that  were  strange  to  see. 
She  was  bending  over  it,  when — ah  me!  — 
The  shrill  cry,  "  Christus !  " 


52  "  CHRISTUS  !  " 

Rang  out  as  if  from  the  stony  lips 
Whence  life  had  parted  in  drear  eclipse, 
As  if  the  soul  of  the  dead  man  cried 
Again  unto  Christ  the  Crucified. 
The  rose  had  fled  from  her  cheeks  so  red, 
But  still  she  knelt  by  his  side  and  said, 
Under  her  breath,  "  I  must  understand 
Whether  from  heaven  or  sea  or  land 
Comes  that  cry,  '  Christus  ! ' ' 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  pulseless  breast : 
What  fluttered  beneath  the  crimson  vest  ? 
A  bird  with  plumage  of  green  and  gold, 
Nestling  away  from  the  piercing  cold, 
Was  folded  close  to  the  silent  heart 
From  which  it  had  felt  the  life  depart; 
And  when  she  held  it  against  her  cheek, 
As  plainly  as  ever  a  bird  could  speak 
It  sobbed  out,  "  Christus !  " 

And  evermore  when  the  winds  blew  loud, 

And  the  trees  in  the  grasp  of  the  storm  were  bowed, 


"  CHRIST  US  !  "  53 

And  the  lowering  wings  of  the  tempest  beat 
The  drifting  snow  in  the  village-street, 
Just  as  its  master  in  death  had  cried 
To  Christ,  the  Holy,  the  Crucified, 
Pouring  his  soul  in  one  wild  word — 
Pray  God  that  the  cry  in  heaven  was  heard  !  — 
The  bird  cried,  "  Christus !  " 


THE   CLAY  TO   THE   ROSE. 

O  BEAUTIFUL,  royal  Rose, 
O  Rose,  so  fair  and  sweet! 

Queen  of  the  garden  art  thou, 
And  I — the  Clay  at  thy  feet! 

The  butterfly  hovers  about  thee; 

The  brown  bee  kisses  thy  lips; 
And  the  humming-bird,  reckless  rover, 

Their  marvelous  sweetness  sips. 

The  sunshine  hastes  to  caress  thee 

Flying  on  pinions  fleet ; 
The  dew-drop  sleeps  in  thy  bosom, 

But  I — I  lie  at  thy  feet! 

The  radiant  morning  crowns  thee; 
And  the  noon's  hot  heart  is  thine; 


THE    CLAY    TO    THE    ROSE.  55 

And  the  starry  night  enfolds  thee 
In  the  might  of  its  love  divine ; 

I  hear  the  warm  rain  whisper 

Its  message  soft  and  sweet ; 
And  the  south-wind's  passionate  murmur, 

While  I  lie  low  at  thy  feet! 

It  is  not  mine  to  approach  thee; 

I  never  may  kiss  thy  lips, 
Or  touch  the  hem  of  thy  garment 

With  tremulous  finger-tips. 

Yet,  O  thou  beautiful  Rose ! 

Queen  rose,  so  fair  and  sweet, 
What  were  lover  or  crown  to  thee 

Without  the  Clay  at  thy  feet? 


TWO. 

WE  two  will  stand  in  the  shadow  here, 

To  see  the  bride  as  she  passes  by ; 
Ring  soft  and  low,  ring  loud  and  clear, 

Ye  chiming  bells  that  swing  on  high  ! 
Look !  look  !  she  comes !     The  air  grows  sweet 

With  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  orange  blooms, 
And  the  flowers  she  treads  beneath  her  feet 

Die  in  a  flood  of  rare  perfumes ! 

She  comes !  she  comes  !     The  happy  bells 

With  their  joyous  clamor  fill  the  air, 
While  the  great  organ  dies  and  swells, 

Soaring  to  trembling  heights  of  prayer ! 
Oh!  rare  are  her  robes  of  silken  sheen, 

And  the  pearls  that  gleam  on  her  bosom's  snow ; 
But  rarer  the  grace  of  her  royal  mien, 

Her  hair's  fine  gold,  and  her  cheek's  young  glow. 
56 


TWO.  57 

Dainty  and  fair  as  a  folded  rose, 

Fresh  as  a  violet  dewy  sweet, 
Chaste  as  a  lily,  she  hardly  knows 

That  there  are  rough  paths  for  other  feet. 
For  Love  hath  shielded  her;  Honor  kept 

Watch  beside  her  by  night  and  day; 
And  Evil  out  from  her  sight  hath  crept, 

Trailing  its  slow  length  far  away. 

Now  in  her  perfect  womanhood, 

In  all  the  wealth  of  her  matchless  charms, 
Lovely  and  beautiful,  pure  and  good, 

She  yields  herself  to  her  lover's  arms. 
Hark !  how  the  jubilant  voices  ring ! 

Lo !  as  we  stand  in  the  shadow  here, 
While  far  above  us  the  gay  bells  swing, 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  a  happy  tear! 

The  pageant  is  over.     Come  with  me 
To  the  other  side  of  the  town,  I  pray, 

Ere  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  darkening  sea, 
And  night  falls  around  us,  chill  and  gray. 


58  TWO. 

In  the  dim  church  porch  an  hour  ago, 
We  waited  the  bride's  fair  face  to  see; 

Now  Life  has  a  sadder  sight  to  show, 
A  darker  picture  for  you  and  me. 

No  need  to  seek  for  the  shadow  here; 

There  are  shadows  lurking  everywhere ; 
These  streets  in  the  brightest  day  are  drear, 

And  black  as  the  blackness  of  despair. 
But  this  is  the  house.     Take  heed,  my  friend, 

The  stairs  are  rotten,  the  way  is  dim; 
And  up  the  flights,  as  we  still  ascend, 

Creep  stealthy  phantoms  dark  and  grim. 

Enter  this  chamber.     Day  by  day, 

Alone  in  this  chill  and  ghostly  room, 
A  child — a  woman — which  is  it,  pray?  — 

Despairingly  waits  for  the  hour  of  doom ! 
Ah !  as  she  wrings  her  hands  so  pale, 

No  gleam  of  a  wedding  ring  you  see ; 
There  is  nothing  to  tell.     You  know  the  tale  — 

God  help  her  now  in  her  misery! 


TWO.  59 

I  dare  not  judge  her.     I  only  know 

That  love  was  to  her  a  sin  and  a  snare, 
While  to  the  bride  of  an  hour  ago 

It  brought  all  blessings  its  hands  could  bear! 
I  only  know  that  to  one  it  came 

Laden  with  honor,  and  joy,  and  peace  : 
Its  gifts  to  the  other  were  woe  and  shame, 

And  a  burning  pain  that  shall  never  cease  ! 

I  only  know  that  the  soul  of  one 

Has  been  a  pearl  in  a  golden  case; 
That  of  the  other  a  pebble  thrown 

Idly  down  in  a  way-side  place, 
Where  all  day  long  strange  footsteps  trod, 

And  the  bold,  bright  sun  drank  up  the  dew ! 
Yet  both  were  women.     O  righteous  God, 

Thou  only  canst  judge  between  the  two ! 


EVENTIDE. 

WHENEVER,  with  reverent  footsteps, 
I  pass  through  the  mystic  door 

Of  Memory's  stately  palace, 
Where  dwell  the  days  of  yore, 

One  scene,  like  a  lovely  vision, 
Comes  to  me  o'er  and  o'er. 

'T  is  a  dim,  fire-lighted  chamber ; 

There  are  pictures  on  the  wall, 
And  around  them  dance  the  shadows 

Grotesque  and  weird  and  tall, 
As  the  flames  on  the  storied  hearth-stone 

Wavering  rise  and  fall. 

An  ancient  cabinet  stands  there, 

That  came  from  beyond  the  seas, 
With  a  breath  of  spicy  odors 


EVENTIDE.  6 1 

Caught  from  the  Indian  breeze; 
And  its  fluted  doors  and  moldings 
Are  dark  with  mysteries. 

There  's  an  old  arm-chair  in  the  corner, 
Straight-backed  and  tall  and  quaint; 

Ah!  many  a  generation — 
Sinner  and  sage  and  saint — 

It  hath  held  in  its  ample  bosom 
With  murmur  nor  complaint ! 

In  the  glow  of  the  fire-light  playing, 

A  tiny,  blithesome  pair, 
With  the  music  of  their  laughter 

Fill  all  the  tranquil  air, — 
A  rosy,  brown-eyed  lassie, 

A  boy  serenely  fair. 

A  woman  sits  in  the  shadow 

Watching  the  children  twain, 
With  a  joy  so  deep  and  tender 

It  is  near  akin  to  pain, 


62  EVENTIDE. 

And  a  smile  and  tear  blend  softly — 
Sunshine  and  April  rain ! 

Her  heart  keeps  time  to  the  rhythm 
Of  love's  unuttered  prayer, 

As,  with  still  hands  lightly  folded, 
She  listens,  unaware, 

Through  all  the  children's  laughter, 
For  a  footfall  on  the  stair. 

I  know  the  woman  who  sits  there; 

Time  hath  been  kind  to  her, 
And  the  years  have  brought  her  treasures 

Of  frankincense  and  myrrh 
Richer,  perhaps,  and  rarer, 

Than  Life's  young  roses  were. 

But  I  doubt  if  ever  her  spirit 
Hath  known,  or  yet  shall  know, 

The  bliss  of  a  happier  hour, 

As  the  swift  years  come  and  go, 

Than  this  in  the  shadowy  chamber 
Lit  by  the  hearth-fire's  glow! 


TO  THE   "BOUQUET  CLUB." 

O  ROSEBUD  garland  of  girls! 

Who  ask  for  a  song  from  me, 
To  what  sweet  air  shall  I  set  my  lay  ? 

What  shall  its  key-note  be  ? 
The  flowers  have  gone  from  wood  and  hill; 
The  rippling  river  lies  white  and  still; 
And  the  bird  that  sang  on  the  maple  bough, 
Afar  in  the  South-land  singeth  now ! 

O  Rosebud  garland  of  girls! 

If  the  whole  glad  year  were  May; 
If  winds  sang  low  in  the  clustering  leaves, 

And  roses  bloomed  alway; 
If  youth  were  all  that  there  is  of  life; 
If  the  years  brought  nothing  of  care  or  strife, 
Nor  even  a  cloud  to  the  ether  blue, 
It  were  easy  to  sing  a  song  for  you! 
63 


64  TO    THE   "BOUQUET   CLUB." 

Yet,  O  my  garland  of  girls ! 

Is  there  nothing  better  than  May  ? 
The  golden  glow  of  the  harvest  time! 

The  rest  of  the  Autumn  day ! 
This  thought  I  give  to  you  all  to  keep: 
Who  soweth  good  seed  shall  surely  reap ; 
The  year  grows  rich  as  it  groweth  old, 
And  life's  latest  sands  are  its  sands  of  gold! 


AT   THE    LAST. 

WILL  the  day  ever  come,  I  wonder, 

When  I  shall  be  glad  to  know 
That  my  hands  will  be  folded  under 

The  next  white  fall  of  the  snow  ? 
To  know  that  when  next  the  clover 

Wooeth  the  wandering  bee, 
Its  crimson  tide  will  drift  over 

All  that  is  left  of  me  ? 

Will  I  ever  be  tired  of  living, 

And  be  glad  to  go  to  my  rest, 
With  a  cool  and  fragrant  lily 

Asleep  on  my  silent  breast  ? 
Will  my  eyes  grow  weary  of  seeing, 

As  the  hours  pass,  one  by  one, 
Till  I  long  for  the  hush  and  the  darkness 

As  I  never  longed  for  the  sun  ? 

65 


66  AT    THE    LAST. 

God  knoweth !     Sometime,  it  may  be, 

I  shall  smile  to  hear  you  say : 
"  Dear  heart !  she  will  not  waken 

At  the  dawn  of  another  day ! " 
And  sometime,  love,  it  may  be, 

I  shall  whisper  under  my  breath : 
"  The  happiest  hour  of  my  life,  dear, 

Is  this  —  the  hour  of  my  death!" 


MY   LOVERS. 

I  HAVE  four  noble  lovers, 

Young  and  gallant,  blithe  and  gay, 
And  in  all  the  land  no  maiden 

Hath  a  goodlier  troupe  than  they! 
And  never  princess,  guarded 

By  knights  of  high  degree, 
Knew  sweeter,  purer  homage 

Than  my  lovers  pay  to  me! 

One  of  my  noble  lovers 

Is  a  self-poised,  thoughtful  man, 
Gravely  gay,  serenely  earnest, 

Strong  to  do,  and  bold  to  plan ! 
And  one  is  sweet  and  sunny, 

Pure  as  crystal,  true  as  steel, 
With  a  soul  responding  ever 

When  the  truth  makes  high  appeal ! 

67 


68  MY  LOVERS. 

And  another  of  my  lovers, 

Bright  and  debonair  is  he, 
Brave  and  ardent,  strong  and  tender, 

And  the  flower  of  courtesie ! 
Last  of  all,  an  eager  student, 

Upon  lofty  aims  intent : 
Manly  force  and  gentle  sweetness 

In  his  nature  rarely  blent ! 

But  when  of  noble  lovers 

All  alike  are  dear  and  true, 
And  her  heart  to  choose  refuses. 

Pray,  what  can  a  woman  do  ? 
Ah,  my  sons!     For  this  I  bless  ye, 

Even  as  I  myself  am  blest, 
That  I  know  not  which  is  dearest,  . 

That  I  care  not  which  is  best ! 


THE    LEGEND    OF   THE    ORGAN-BUILDER. 

DAY  by  day  the  Organ-Builder  in  his  lonely  cham 
ber  wrought; 

Day  by  day  the  soft  air  trembled  to  the  music  of 
his  thought ; 

Till  at  last  the  work  was  ended,  and  no  organ  voice 

so  grand 
Ever  yet  had  soared  responsive  to  the  master's  magic 

hand. 

Ay,  so  rarely  was  it  builded  that  whenever  groom  or 

bride 
Who  in  God's  sight  were  well-pleasing  in  the  church 

stood  side  by  side, 

Without  touch  or  breath  the  organ  of  itself  began  to 
play, 

69 


70       THE  LEGEND   OF  THE   ORGAN.BUILDER. 

And  the  very  airs  of  heaven  through  the  soft  gloom 
seemed  to  stray. 

He  was  young,  the    Organ-Builder,    and  o'er  all   the 

land  his  fame 
Ran   with    fleet   and   eager    footsteps,    like   a   swiftly 

rushing  flame. 

All   the   maidens  heard    the    story;    all   the   maidens 

blushed  and  smiled, 
By  his   youth    and    wondrous    beauty    and    his    great 

renown  beguiled. 

So  he  sought  and  won  the   fairest,  and   the  wedding 

day  was  set : 
Happy  day  —  the   brightest  jewel   in    the   glad  year's 

coronet ! 

But   when    they    the    portal    entered,    he    forgot    his 

lovely  bride — 
Forgot    his    love,    forgot    his    God,    and    his    heart 

swelled  high  with  pride. 


THE  LEGEND   OF  THE   ORGAN-BUILDER.       71 

"  Ah !  "    thought   he,    "  how    great    a    master   am    I ! 

When  the  organ  plays, 
How  the  vast  cathedral  arches  will   re-echo  with  my 

praise  !  " 

Up  the  aisle  the   gay  procession   moved.      The   altar 

shone  afar, 
With  its  every  candle  gleaming  through  soft  shadows 

like  a  star. 

But   he    listened,  listened,  listened,   with    no    thought 

of  love  or  prayer, 
For   the    swelling  notes   of   triumph    from    his    organ 

standing  there. 

All  was  silent.       Nothing   heard  he   save  the   priest's 

low  monotone, 
And  the  bride's  robe   trailing  softly  o'er  the   floor  of 

fretted  stone. 

Then   his    lips    grew  white  with    anger.      Surely  God 
was  pleased  with  him 


72       THE  LEGEND   OF  THE   ORGAN-BUILDER. 

Who  had  built   the  wondrous   organ    for  His    temple 
vast  and  dim  ? 

Whose  the  fault,  then  ?     Hers — the  maiden  standing 

meekly  at  his  side ! 
Flamed    his   jealous   rage,  maintaining   she  was   false 

to  him — his  bride. 

Vain  were    all    her  protestations,  vain    her  innocence 

and  truth ; 
On   that  very  night    he  left    her  to    her  anguish   and 

her  ruth. 

********* 
Far  he  wandered  to  a  country  wherein  no  man  knew 

his  name. 
For  ten  weary  years  he  dwelt  there,  nursing  still  his 

wrath  and  shame. 

Then  his  haughty  heart   grew  softer,  and  he  thought 

by  night  and  day 
Of  the    bride  he  had    deserted,  till    he    hardly  dared 

to  pray — 


THE  LEGEND   OF   THE   ORGAN-BUILDER.       73 

Thought  of  her,  a  spotless  maiden,  fair  and  beautiful 

and  good; 
Thought  of  his  relentless  anger  that   had   cursed   her 

womanhood  ; 

Till  his  yearning  grief  and  penitence  at  last  were  all 

complete, 
And  he  longed,  with  bitter  longing,  just  to  fall  down 

at  her  feet. 

***####*# 
Ah !    how    throbbed   his   heart    when,    after    many    a 

weary  day  and  night, 
Rose  his  native    towers  before    him,  with    the   sunset 

glow  alight ! 

Through  the  gates    into  the  city  on  he   pressed  with 

eager  tread ; 
There  he  met  a  long  procession  —  mourners  following 

the  dead. 

"  Now    why    weep    ye    so,  good    people  ?  and  whom 
bury  ye  to-day  ? 


74       THE  LEGEND   OF  THE   ORGAN-BUILDER. 

Why  do  yonder  sorrowing  maidens  scatter  flowers 
along  the  way  ? 

"  Has   some    saint    gone   up  to    Heaven  ? "      "  Yes," 

they  answered,  weeping  sore  : 
"  For  the  Organ-Builder's  saintly  wife   our  eyes  shall 

see  no  more  ; 

"  And  because  her  days  were  given  to  the  service  of 
God's  poor, 

From  His  church  we  mean  to  bury  her.  See !  yon 
der  is  the  door." 

No  one  knew  him ;  no  one  wondered  when  he  cried 

out,  white  with  pain ; 
No  one  questioned  when,  with  pallid  lips,  he  poured 

his  tears  like  rain. 

"  T  is    some    one    whom    she    has     comforted    who 

mourns  with  us,"  they  said, 
As    he   made    his    way   unchallenged,  and    bore   the 

coffin's  head. 


THE   LEGEND   OF   THE   ORGAN-BUILDER.       75 

Bore    it    through    the    open    portal,    bore    it    up   the 

echoing  aisle, 
Set  it  down  before  the  altar,  where  the  lights  burned 

clear  the  while  : 

When,  oh,  hark  !  the  wondrous  organ  of  itself  began 

to  play 
Strains  of  rare,  unearthly  sweetness  never  heard  until 

that  day  ! 

All  the  vaulted  arches  rang  with  the  music  sweet 
and  clear ; 

All  the  air  was  filled  with  glory,  as  of  angels  hover 
ing  near; 

And  ere  yet  the  strain  was  ended,  he  who   bore    the 

coffin's  head, 
With  the   smile   of  one   forgiven,  gently  sank   beside 

it  —  dead. 

They  who  raised  the  body  knew  him,  and  they  laid 
him  by  his  bride ; 


76       THE  LEGEND   OF   THE   ORGAN-BUILDER. 

Down    the    aisle    and    o'er    the    threshold    they  were 
carried  side  by  side ; 

While   the    organ    played  a  dirge   that   no  man   ever 

heard  before, 

And    then    softly    sank    to   silence — silence    kept   for 
evermore. 


AT    DAWN. 

AT  dawn  when  the  jubilant  morning  broke, 
And  its  glory  flooded  the  mountain  side, 

I  said,  "  'T  is  eleven  years  to-day, 
Eleven  years  since  my  darling  died ! " 

And  then  I  turned  to  my  household  ways, 
To  my  daily  tasks,  without,  within, 

As  happily  busy  all  the  day 

As  if  my  darling  had  never  been  !  — 

As  if  she  had  never  lived,  or  died ! 

Yet  when  they  buried  her  out  of  my  sight, 
I  thought  the  sun  had  gone  down  at  noon, 

And  the  day  could  never  again  be  bright. 

Ah,  well!     As  the  swift  years  come  and  go, 
It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  shall  lie 


78  A  T  DAWN. 

Somewhere  under  a  bit  of  turf, 

With  my  pale  hands  folded  quietly. 

And  then  some  one  who  has  loved  me  well  — 
Perhaps  the  one  who  has  loved  me  best — 

Will  say  of  me -as  I  said  of  her, 

"She  has  been  just  so  many  years  at  rest,"  — 

Then  turn  to  the  living  loves  again, 

To  the  busy  life,  without,  within, 
And  the  day  will  go  on  from  dawn  to  dusk, 

Even  as  if  I  had  never  been ! 

Dear  hearts !  dear  hearts !     It  must  still  be  so ! 

The  roses  will  bloom,  and  the  stars  will  shine, 
And  the  soft  green  grass  creep  still  and  slow, 

Sometime  over  a  grave  of  mine — 

And  over  the  grave  in  your  hearts  as  well ! 

Ye  cannot  hinder  it  if  ye  would; 
And  I — ah!  I  shall  be  wiser  then  — 

I  would  not  hinder  it  if  I  could  ! 


KING   IVAN'S   OATH. 

KING  IVAN  ruled  a  mighty  land 

Girt  by  the  sea  on  either  hand; 

A  goodly  land  as  e'er  the  sun 

In  its  long  journey  looked  upon ! 

His  knights  were  loyal,  brave,  and  true, 

Eager  their  lord's  behests  to  do ; 

His  counselors  were  wise  and  just, 

Nor  ever  failed  his  kingly -trust; 

The  nations  praised  him,  and  the  state 

Grew  powerful,  and  rich,  and  great; 

While  still  with  long  and  loud  acclaim, 

His  people  hailed  their  monarch's  name! 

Fronting  the  east,  a  stately  pile, 

The  palace  caught  the  sun's  first  smile; 

Lightly  its  domes  and  arches  sprung, 

As  earth's  glad  hills  when  earth  was  young; 

79 


8o  KING    IVAN'S    OATH. 

And,  miracles  of  airy  grace, 

Each  tower  and  turret  soared  in  space. 

Within But  here  no  rhythmic  flow 

Of  words  with  light  and  warmth  aglow 
Can  tell  the  story.     Not  more  fair 
Are  your  own  castles  hung  in  air  ! 
Painter  and  sculptor  there  had  wrought 
The  utmost  beauty  of  their  thought ; 
There  the  rich  fruit  of  Persian  looms 
Glowed  darkly  bright  as  tropic  blooms; 
There  fell  the  light  like  golden  mist, 
Filtered  through  clouds  of  amethyst ; 
There  bright-winged  birds  and  odorous  flowers 
With  song  and  fragrance  filled  the  hours; 
There  Pleasure  flung  the  portals  wide, 
And  soul  and  sense  were  satisfied! 

The  queen  ?     No  fairer  face  than  hers 
E'er  smiled  upon  its  worshipers; 
And  she  was  good  as  fair,  't  was  said, 
And  loved  the  king  ere  they  were  wed. 
And  he?     No  doubt  he  loved  her,  too, 


KING    IVAN'S    OATH.  81 

After  a  kingly  fashion — knew 
She  had  a  right  his  throne  to  share, 
And  would  be  mother  of  his  heir. 
But  yet,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
Sometimes  forgot  his  royalty, — 
Forgot  his  kingly  crown,  and  then 
Loved,  and  made  love,  like  other  men! 

There  seemed  no  shadow  near  the  throne; 

Yet  oft  the  great  king  walked  alone, 

Hands  clasped  behind  him,  head  bowed  down, 

And  on  his  royal  face  a  frown. 

Sat  Mordecai  within  his  gate  ? 

What  scoffing  specter  mocked  his  state  ? 

What  demon  held  him  in  a  spell  ? 

Alas !  the  sweet  queen  knew  too  well ! 

Apples  of  Sodom  ate  he,  since 

She  had  not  borne  to  him  a  prince, 

Though  thrice  his  hope  had  budded  fair, 

And  he  had  counted  on  an  heir. 

Three  little  daughters,  dainty  girls 

With  sunshine  tangled  in  their  curls, 

ii 


82  KING    IVAN'S    OATH. 

Bloomed  in  the  palace;  but  no  son  — 
The  long-expected,  waited  one, 
Flower  of  the  state,  and  pride  of  all  — 
Grew  at  the  king's  side,  straight  and  tall ! 

The  king  was  angered.     It  may  be 

No  worse  than  other  men  was  he ; 

But — a  high  tower  upon  a  hill — 

His  light  shone  far  for  good  or  ill! 

In  from  the  chase  one  day  he  rode; 

To  the  queen's  chamber  fierce  he  strode; 

Where,  bending  o'er  her  'broidery  frame, 

Her  pale  cheeks  burned  with  sudden  flame 

At  his  quick  coming.     Up  she  rose, 

Stirred  from  her  wonted  calm  repose, 

A  lily  flushing  when  the  sun 

Its  stately  beauty  looked  upon ! 

Alas!  alas!  so  blind  was  he, 

Or  else  he  did  not  care  to  see — 

He  had  no  pity,  though  she  stood 

In  perfect  flower  of  womanhood ! 

"You  bear  to  me  no  son,"  he  said; 


KING    IVAN'S    OATH.  83 

Then  flinging  back  his  haughty  head  : 
"  Each  base-born  peasant  has  an  heir, 
His  name  to  keep,  his  crust  to  share, 
While  I — the  king  of  this  broad  land  — 
Have  no  son  near  my  throne  to  stand ! 
Who,  then,  shall  reign  when  I  am  dead  ? 
Who  wield  the  scepter  in  my  stead  ? 
Inherit  all  my  pride  and  power, 
And  wear  my  glory  as  his  dower? 
Give  me  a  man-child,  who  shall  be 
Lord  of  the  realm,  himself,  and  me ! " 

Then  pallid  lips  made  slow  reply, — 
"  God  ordereth.     Not  you  nor  I !  " 

His  brow  flushed  hot;  a  sudden  clang 
As  of  arms  throughout  the  chamber  rang, 
And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  threw 
Back  wrathful  answer  :  "  That  may  do 
For  puling  women  —  not  for  me! 
Now,  by  my  good  sword,  we  shall  see ! 
So  help  me  Heaven,  I  will  not  brook 


84  KING    IVAN'S    OATH. 

On  a  girl's  face  again  to  look! 

And  when  you  next  shall  bear  a  child, 

Though  fair  a  babe  as  ever  smiled, 

If  it  be  not  a  princely  heir, 

By  all  the  immortal  gods,,  I  swear 

I  ne'er  will  speak  to  it,  nor  break 

My  soul's  stern  silence  for  Love's  sake !  " 

Then  forth  he  fared  and  rode  away, 

Nor  saw  the  queen  again  that  day  :  — 

The  hapless  queen,  who  to  the  floor 

Sank  prone  and  breathless,  as  the  door 

Swung  to  behind  him,  and  his  tread 

Down  the  long  arches  echoed. 

In  truth  she  was  in   sorry  plight 

When  her  maids  found  her  late  that  night, 

The  king  learned  that  which  spoiled  his  rest, 

But  kept  the  secret  in  his  breast ! 

******** 
At  length,  when  months  had  duly  sped, 
High  streamed  the  banners  overhead, 
And  all  the  bells  rang  out  at  morn 


KING    IVAN'S    OATH.  85 

In  jubilant  peals — a  Prince  was  born! 
Now  let  the  joyous  music  ring ! 
Now  let  the  merry  minstrels  sing ! 
Now  pour  the  wine  and  crown  the  feast 
With  fruits  and  flowers  of  all  the  East! 
Now  let  the  votive  candles  shine 
And  garlands  bloom  on  every  shrine  ! 
Now  let  the  young,  with  flying  feet 
Time  to  bewildering  music  beat, 
And  let  the  old  their  joys  rehearse 
In  stirring  tale,  or  flowing  verse ! 
Now  fill  with  shouts  the  waiting  air, 
And  scatter  largess  everywhere! 

Ah !  who  so  happy  as  the  king  ? 
Swift  flew  the  hours  on  eager  wing; 
And  the  boy  grew  apace,  until 
The  second  summer,  sweet  and  still, 
Dropped  roses  round  him  as  he  played 
Where  arched  the  leafy  colonnade. 
How  fair  he  was  tongue  cannot  say, 
But  he  was  fairer  than  the  day! 


86  KING    IVAN'S    OATH.  , 

And  never  princely  coronet 

On  brow  of  nobler  mold  was  set; 

Nor  ever  did  its  jewels  gleam 

Above  an  eye  of  brighter  beam ! 

And  never  yet  where  sunshine  falls, 

Flooding  with  light  the  cottage  walls, 

'Mid  hum  of  bee,  or  song  of  birds, 

Or  tenderest  breath  of  loving  words, 

Blossomed  a  sweeter  child  than  he ! 

How  the  king  joyed  his  strength  to  see, 

Counting  the  weeks  that  flew  so  fast — 

Each  fuller,  happier  than  the  last ! 

Six  months  had  passed  since  he  could  walk; 

Was  it  not  time  the  prince  should  talk? 

Ah !  baby  words  with  tripping  feet ! 

Ah  !  baby  laughter,  silver  sweet ! 

At  length  within  the  palace  rose 
Rumor  so  strange  that  friends  and  foes 
Forgot  their  love,  forgot  their  hate, 
Pausing  to  croon  and  speculate. 
Vague  whispers  floated  in  the  air; 


KING    IVAN'S    OATH.  87 

A  hint  of  mystery  here  and  there ; 

A  sudden  hush,  a  startled  glance, 

Quick  silences  and  looks  askance. 

Thus  day  by  day  the  wonder  grew, 

Till  o'er  the  kingdom  wide  it  flew. 

The  prince — his  father — what  was  this 

Strange  tale  so  surely  told  amiss  ? 

The  young  prince  dumb?     Who  dared  to  say 

That  nature  such  a  prank  could  play? 

Dumb  to  the  king?     In  silence  bound, 

With  voiceless  lips  that  gave  no  sound 

When  the  king  questioned  ?  — Yet  no  lute, 

Nor  chiming  bell,  nor  silver  flute, 

Nor  lark's  song,  high  in  ether  hung, 

Rang  clearer  than  the  prince's  tongue ! 

The  court  physicians  came  and  went; 

Learned  men  from  all  the  continent 

Gave  wise  opinions,  talked  of  laws, 

Stroked  their  gray  beards,  nor  found  the  cause. 

Then  bribes  were  tried,  and  threats.     The  child, 

As  one  bewildered,  sighed  and  smiled, 


88  KING    IVAN'S    OATH. 

In  a  wild  storm  of  weeping  broke, 
Moved  its  red  lips,  but  never  spoke. 

The  changeful  years  rolled  on  apace; 
The  young  prince  wore  a  bearded  face  ; 
The  good  queen  died;  the  king  grew  gray; 
A  generation  passed  away. 
Courtiers  forgot  to  tell  the  tale; 
Gossip  itself  grew  old  and  stale. 
But  never  once,  in  all  the  years 
That  bore  such  freight  of  joys  and  tears, 
Was  the  spell  broken :  not  one  word 
From  son  to  sire  was  ever  heard. 
Mutely  his  father's  face  he  scanned — 
Mutely  he  clasped  his  aged  hand — 
Mutely  he  kissed  him  when  at  last 
To  death's  long  slumber  forth  he  passed! 
Come  weal  or  woe,  he  could  not  break 
The  mystic  silence  for  Love's  sake! 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

[Cyrus  M.  and  Mary  Ripley  Fisher,  lost  on  Steamship  Atlantic, 
April  ist,  1873.] 

ONCE,  long  ago,  with  trembling  lips  I  sung 

Of  one  who,  when  the  earliest  flowers  were  seen, 

So  sweet,  so  dear,  so  beautiful  and  young, 

Came   home   to   sleep   where   kindred   graves   were 
green. 

Soft  was  the  turf  we  raised  to  give  her  room; 

Clear  were  the  rain-drops,  shining  as  they  fell; 
Sweet  the  arbutus,  with  its  tender  bloom 

Brightening  the  couch  of  her  who  loved  it  well. 

Yet,  in  our  blindness,  how  we  wept  that  day, 
When  the  earth  fell  upon  her  coffin-lid ! 

O,  ye  beloved  whom  I  sing  this  day, 

Could  we  but  know  where  your  dear  forms  lie  hid ! 

89 


90  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Could  we  but  lay  you  down  by  her  dear  side, 
Wrapped  in  the  garments  of  eternal  rest, 

Where  the  still  hours  in  slow  succession  glide, 
And  not  a  dream  may  stir  the  pulseless  breast — 

Where  all  day  long  the  shadows  come  and  go, 
And  soft  winds  murmur  and  sweet  song-birds  sing — 

Where  all  night  long  the  star-light's  tender  glow 
Falls  where  the  flowers  you  loved  are  blossoming — 

Then  should  the  tempest  of  our  grief  grow  calm; 
Then    moaning    gales    should    vex    our    souls    no 

more  ; 
And  the  clear  swelling  of  our  thankful  psalm 

Should  drown  the  beat  of  surges  on  the  shore. 

But  the  deep  sea  will  not  give  up  its  dead. 

O,  ye  who  know  where  your  beloved  sleep, 
Bid  heart's-ease  bloom  on  each  love-guarded  bed, 

And  bless  your  God  for  graves  whereon  to  weep ! 


WEAVING  THE  WEB. 

"THIS  morn  I  will  weave  my  web,"  she  said, 

As  she  stood  by  her  loom  in  the  rosy  light, 
And  her  young  eyes,  hopefully  glad  and  clear, 

Followed  afar  the  swallow's  flight. 
"As  soon  as  the  day's  first  tasks  are  done, 

While  yet  I  am  fresh  and  strong,"  said  she, 
"  I  will  hasten  to  weave  the  beautiful  web 

Whose  pattern  is  known  to  none  but  me ! 

"  I  will  weave  it  fine,  I  will  weave  it  fair, 

And  ah !  how  the  colors  will  glow ! "  she  said ; 
"  So  fadeless  and  strong  will  I  weave  my  web 

That  perhaps  it  will  live  after  I  am  dead." 
But  the  morning  hours  sped  on  apace  ; 

The  air  grew  sweet  with  the  breath  of  June ; 
And  young  Love  hid  by  the  waiting  loom, 

Tangling  the  threads  as  he  hummed  a  tune. 

91 


92  WEAVING    THE    WEB. 

"  Ah,  life  is  so  rich  and  full !  "  she  cried, 

"  And  morn  is  short  though  the  days  are  long ! 
This  noon  I  will  weave  my  beautiful  web, 

I  will  weave  it  carefully,  fine  and  strong." 
But  the  sun  rode  high  in  the  cloudless  sky ; 

The  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  she  bore 
And  hither  and  thither  she  came  and  went, 

While  the  loom  stood  still  as  it  stood  before. 

"Ah!  life  is  too  busy  at  noon,"  she  said; 

"  My  web  must  wait  till  the  eventide, 
Till  the  common  work  of  the  day  is  done, 

And  my  heart  grows  calm  in  the  silence  wide." 
So,  one  by  one,  the  hours  passed  on 

Till  the  creeping  shadows  had  longer  grown  ; 
Till  the  house  was  still,  and  the  breezes   slept, 

And  her  singing  birds  to  their  nests  had  flown. 

"  And  now  I  will  weave  my  web,"  she  said, 
As  she  turned  to  her  loom  ere  set  of  sun, 

And  laid  her  hand  on  the  shining  threads 
To  set  them  in  order  one  by  one. 


WEAVING    THE    WEB.  93 

But  hand  was  tired,  and  heart  was  weak : 
"  I  am  not  as  strong  as  I  was/'  sighed  she, 

"  And  the  pattern  is  blurred,  and  the  colors  rare 
Are  not  so  bright,  or  so  fair  to  see! 

"  I  must  wait,  I  think,  till  another  morn ; 

I  must  go  to  my  rest  with  my  work  undone; 
It  is  growing  too  dark  to  weave !  "  she  cried, 

As  lower  and  lower  sank  the  sun. 
She  dropped  the  shuttle ;  the  loom  stood  still ; 

The  weaver  slept  in  the  twilight  gray. 
Dear  heart!     Will  she  weave  her  beautiful  web 

In  the  golden  light  of  a  longer  day  ? 


RABBI  BENAIAH. 

RABBI  BENAIAH  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  the  low  sun  athwart  the  level  sands 
Shot  his  long  arrows,  from  far  Eastern  lands 

Homeward  across  the  desert  bent  his  way. 

Behind  him  trailed  the  lengthening  caravan, — 
The  slow,  weird  camels,  with  monotonous  pace; 
Before  him,  lifted  in  the  clear,  far  space, 

From  east  to  west  the  towers  of  his  city  ran !       t 

Impatiently  he  scanned  the  darkening  sky; 
Then  girding  in  hot  haste,  "  What  ho !  "  cried  he, 
"  Bring  the  swift  steed  Abdallah  unto  me ! 

As  rode  his  Bedouin  master,  so  will  I !" 

Soon  like  a  bird  across  the  waste  he  flew, 
Nor  drew  his  rein  till  at  the  massive  gate 

94 


RABBI  BENAIAH.  95 

That  guards  the  citadel's  supremest  state 
He  paused  a  moment,  slowly  entering  through. 

Then  down  the  shadowy,  moonlit  streets  he  sped; 
The  city  slept;  but  like  a  burning  star, 
Where  his  own  turret-chamber  rose  afar, 

A  clear,  strong  light  its  steady  radiance  shed ! 

Into  his  court  he  rode  with  sudden  clang. 

The  startled  slaves  bowed  low,  but  spake  no  word ; 

By  no  quick  tumult  was  the  midnight  stirred, 
No  shouts  of  welcome  on  the  night  air  rang ! 

But  with  slow  footsteps  down  the  turret-stairs, 

With  trembling  lips  that  did  but  breathe  his  name, 
And  sad,  averted  eyes,  his  fair  wife  came, — 

The  lady  Judith, — wan  with  tears  and  prayers. 

Then  swift  he  cried  out,  less  in  wrath  than  fear, 
"  Now,  by  my  beard !  is  this  the  way  ye  keep 
My  welcome  home  ?  Go  wake  my  sons  from  sleep, 

And  let  their  glad  tongues  break  the  silence  here  ! " 


96  RABBI   BENAIAH. 

"  Not  so,  my  dear  lord !      Let  them  rest,"  she  said. 

"  Young  eyes  need  slumber.      But  come  thou  with 
me. 

I  have  a  trouble  to  make  known  to  thee 
Ere  I  before  thee  can  lift  up  my  head." 

Into  an  inner  chamber  led  she  him, 

And  with  her  own   hands   brought  him  meat  and 
wine, 

A  purple  robe,  and  linen  pure  and  fine. 
He  half  forgot  that  her  sweet  eyes  were  dim ! 

"  Now  for  thy  trouble !  "  cried  he,  laughing  loud. 

"  Hast  torn  thy  kirtle  ?     Are  thy  pearls  astray  ? 

What !     Tears  ?     My  camels  o'er  yon  desert  way 
Bring     treasures     that     had     made      Queen     Esther 
proud ! " 

Slowly  she  spake,  nor  in  his  face  looked  she. 
"  My  lord,  long  years  ago  a  friend  of  mine 
Left  with  me  jewels,  costly,  rare,  and  fine, 

Bidding  me  guard  them  carefully  till  he 


RABBI   BENAIAH.  97 

"  Again  should  call  for  them.     The  other  day 
He  sent  his  messenger.     But  I  have  learned 
To  hold  them  as  my  own !     Have  I  not  earned 

A  right  to  keep  them  ?     Speak,  my  lord,  I  pray !  " 

"  Strange  sense  of  honor  hath  a  woman's  heart ! " 
The  rabbi  answered  hotly.  "  Now,  good  lack ! 
Where  are  the  jewels  ?  I  will  send  them  back 

Ere  yet  the  sun  upon  his  course  may  start ! 

"  Show  me  the  jewels !  "     Up  she  rose  as  white 
As  any  ghost,  and  mutely  led  the  way 
Into  the  turret-chamber  whence  the  ray 

Seen  from  afar  had  blessed  the  rabbi's  sight. 

And  with  slow,  trembling  hands  she  drew  aside 
The  silken  curtain  from  before  the  bed 
Whereon,  in  snowy  calm,  their  boys  lay  dead. 

"  There  are  the  jewels,  O,  my  lord !  "  she  cried. 


A   CHILD'S  THOUGHT. 

SOFTLY  fell  the  twilight; 

In  the  glowing  west 
Purple  splendors  faded; 

Birds  had  gone  to  rest; 
All  the  winds  were  sleeping; 

One  lone  whip-poor-will 
Made  the  silence  deeper, 

Calling  from  the  hill. 

Little  Fred, — the  darling, — 

On  his  mother's  knee, 
In  the  gathering  darkness, 

Still  as  still  could  be, 
Watched  the  deepening  shadows; 

Saw  the  stars  come  out; 
Saw  the  weird  bats  flitting 

Stealthily  about ; 


A    CHILD^S    THOUGHT.  99 

Saw  across  the  river 

How  the  furnace  glow, 
Like  a  fiery  pennant, 

Wavered  to  and  fro  : 
Saw  the  tall  trees  standing 

Black  against  the  sky,    ' 
And  the  moon's  pale   crescent 

Swinging  far  and  high. 

Deeper  grew  the  darkness ; 

Darker  grew  his  eyes 
As  he  gazed  around  him, 

In  a  still  surprise. 
Then  he  listened,  listened  ! 

"What  is  this  I  hear 
All  the  time,  dear  mamma, 

Sounding  in   my  ear  ?  " 

"  I  hear  nothing,"  said  she, 

"All  the  earth  is   still." 
But  he  listened,  listened, 

With  an  eager  will, 


A    CHILD'S    THOUGHT. 

Till  at  length  a  quick  smile 
O'er  the  child-face   broke, 

And  a  kindling  luster 
In  his  dark  eyes  woke. 

"  Now  I  know,  dear  mamma ! 

I  can  hear  the  sound 
Of  the  wheels,  the  great  wheels 

That  move  the  world  around ! " 
Oh,  ears  earth  has  dulled  not ! 

In  your  purer  sphere, 
Strains  from  ours  withholden 

Are  you  wise  to  hear  ? 


"GOD    KNOWS.' 


OH  !  wild  and  dark  was  the  winter  night 

When  the  emigrant  ship  went  down, 
But  just  outside  of  the  harbor  bar, 

In  the  sight  of  the  startled  town. 
The  winds  howled,  and  the  sea  roared, 

And  never  a  soul  could  sleep, 
Save  the  little  ones  on  their  mothers'  breasts, 

Too  young  to  watch  and  weep. 

No  boat  could  live  in  the  angry  surf, 

No  rope  could  reach  the  land: 
There  were  bold,  brave  hearts  upon  the  shore, 

There  was  many  a  ready  hand, — 


KNOWS:' 

Women  who  prayed,  and  men  who  strove 
When  prayers  and  work  were  vain ; 

For  the  sun  rose  over  the  awful  void 
And  the  silence  of  the  main. 

All  day  the  watchers  paced  the  sands, 

All  day  they  scanned  the  deep, 
All  night  the  booming  minute-guns 

Echoed  from  steep  to  steep. 
"  Give  up  thy  dead,  O  cruel  sea ! " 

They  cried  athwart  the  space; 
But  only  a  baby's  fragile  form 

Escaped  from  its  stern  embrace. 

Only  one  little  child  of  all 

Who  with  the  ship  went  down 
That  night  when  the  happy  babies  slept 

So  warm  in  the  sheltered  town. 
Wrapped  in  the  glow  of  the  morning  light, 

It  lay  on  the  shifting  sand, 
As  fair  as  a  sculptor's  marble  dream, 

With  a  shell  in  its  dimpled  hand. 


"GOD    KNOWS."  103 

There  were  none  to  tell  of  its  race  or  kin. 

"  God  knoweth,"  the  pastor  said, 
When  the  sobbing  children  crowded  to  ask 

The  name  of  the  baby  dead. 
And  so,  when  they  laid  it  away  at  last 

In  the  church-yard's  hushed  repose, 
They  raised  a  stone  at  the  baby's  head, 

With  the  carven  words,  "  God  knows." 


UNSOLVED. 

T  is   the  old  unanswered  question !     Since  the  stars 

together  sung 
In    the   glory   of   the  morning,  when    the   earth    was 

fair  and  young, 

Man  hath  asked  it  o'er  and  over,  of  the  heavens  so- 

far  and  high, 
And    from   out    the  mystic    silence   never   voice  hath 

made  reply ! 

Yet  again  to-night  I  ask  it,  though  I  know,  O  friend 

of  mine, 
There  will  come,  to  all  my  asking,  never  answering 

voice  of  thine. 

Ah !  how  many  times  the   grasses  have    grown  green 
above  thy  grave, 


UNSOLVED.  105 

And   how  many  times  above    it   have  we    heard    the 
cold  winds  rave  ! 

Thou  hast  solved   the  eternal   problem  that  the  ages 

hold  in  fee ; 
Thou  dost  know  what  we  but  dream   of;    where  we 

marvel,  thou  dost  see. 

What  is  truth,  and  what  is  fable;  what   the  prophets 

saw  who  trod 
In  their  rapt,  ecstatic  visions  up   the  holy  mount  of 

God! 

Not  of  these  high  themes  I  question  —  but  O  friend, 

I  fain  would  know 
How  beyond  the  silent  river  all  the  long  years  come 

and  go  ! 

Where  they  are,  our  well-beloved,  who  have  vanished 

from  our  sight, 
As  the  stars  fade  out  of  heaven  at  the  dawning  of 

the  light; 


106  UNSOLVED. 

How    they    live    and    how    they    love    there,    in    the 

"  somewhere  "  of  our  dreams ; 
In    the  "  city   lying   four-square "  by    the    everlasting 

streams ! 

Oh,  the  mystery  of  being!     Which   is   better,  life  or 

death  ? 
Thou    hast    tried    them    both,  O    comrade,  yet    thy 

voice  ne'er  answereth ! 

Hast    thou    grown    as    grow   the    angels  ?     Doth  thy 

spirit  still  aspire 
As  the  flame  that   soareth  upward,  mounting  higher 

still,  and  higher? 

In  the  flush  of  early   manhood   all  thy  earthly  days 

were  done ; 
Short    thy  struggle    and    endeavor    ere  the   peace   of 

heaven  was  won. 

But  for  us  who  stayed   behind  thee — oh!  our  hands 
are  dark  with  toil, 


UNSOLVED.  107 

And    upon    our    souls,  it    may  be,  are  the   stains    of 
earthly  moil. 

Hast  thou    kept    the  lofty   beauty  and    the  glory   of 

thy  youth  ? 
Dost  thou    see    our  temples  whitening,  smiling  softly 

in  thy  ruth  ? 

But  for  us — we  bear  the  burdens   that  you  dropped 

so  long  ago, 
And  the  cares  you  have  forgotten,  and  the  pains  you 

missed,  we  know. 

Yet — the  question  still  remaineth !      Which  is  better, 

death  or  life  ? 
The  not  doing,  or  the  doing  ?      Joy  of  calm,  or  joy 

of  strife  ? 

Which   is   better — to  be  saved  from  temptation   and 

from  sin, 
Or  to  wrestle  with  the  dragon  and  the  glorious  fight 

to  win? 


lo8  UNSOL  VED. 

Ah  !    we  know  not,  but  God  knoweth !     All   resolves 

itself  to  this, — 
That   He    gave   to    us  the  warfare,  and   to  thee    the 

heavenly  bliss. 

It  was  best  for  thee  to   go  hence  in  the  morning  of 

the  day; 
Till    the  evening  shadows  lengthen  it  is  best   for  us 

to  stay ! 


FIVE. 

"  BUT  a  week  is  so  long !  "  he  said, 

With  a  toss  of  his  curly  head. 
"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven !  — 
Seven  whole  days !     Why,  in  six  you  know 
(You  said  it  yourself — you  told  me  so) 
The  great  GOD  up  in  heaven 
Made  all  the  earth  and  the  seas  and  skies, 
The  trees  and  the  birds  and  the  butterflies ! 
How  can  I  wait  for  my  seeds  to  grow  ?  " 

"  But  a  month  is  so  long !  "  he  said, 
With  a  droop  of  his  boyish  head. 
"  Hear  me  count — one,  two,  three,  four — 
Four  whole  weeks,  and  three  days  more ; 
Thirty-one  days,  and  each  will  creep 
As  the  shadows  crawl  over  yonder  steep. 
Thirty-one  nights,  and  I  shall  lie 
109 


o  FIVE. 

Watching  the  stars  climb  up  the  sky ! 
How  can  I  wait  till  a  month  is  o'er?" 

"  But  a  year  is  so  long !  "  he  said, 

Uplifting  his  bright  young  head. 
"  All  the  seasons  must  come  and  go 
Over  the  hills  with  footsteps  slow — 
Autumn  and  Winter,  Summer  and  Spring; 
Oh,  for  a  bridge  of  gold  to  fling 
Over  the  chasm  deep  and  wide, 
That  I  might  cross  to  the  other  side, 
Where  she  is  waiting — my  love,  my  bride!" 

"Ten  years  may  be  long,"  he  said, 

Slow  raising  his  stately  head, 

"But  there  's  much  to  win,  there  is  much  to  lose; 
A  man  must  labor,  a  man  must  choose, 
And  he  must  be  strong  to  wait ! 
The  years  may  be  long,  but  who  would  wear 
The  crown  of  honor,  must  do  and  dare ! 
No  time  has  he  to  toy  with  fate 
Who  would  climb  to  manhood's  high  estate ! " 


FIVE.  in 


"  Ah !  life  is  not  long !  "  he  said, 
Bowing  his  grand  white  head. 

"  One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven ! 

Seven  times  ten  are  seventy. 

Seventy  years  !  as  swift  their  flight 

As  swallows  cleaving  the  morning  light, 

Or  golden  gleams  at  even. 

Life  is  short  as  a  summer  night — 

How  long,  O  GOD  !  is  eternity  ?  " 


QUIETNESS. 

I  WOULD  be  quiet,  Lord, 

Nor  tease,  nor  fret; 
Not  one  small  need  of  mine 

Wilt  Thou  forget. 

I  am  not  wise  to  know 

What  most  I  need; 
I  dare  not  cry  too  loud 

Lest  Thou  shouldst  heed : 

Lest  Thou  at  length  shouldst  say, 

"  Child,  have  thy  will ; 
As  thou  hast  chosen,  lo  ! 

Thy  cup  I  fill !  " 

What  I  most  crave,  perchance 
Thou  wilt  withhold, 


QUIETNESS.  113 

As  we  from  hands  unmeet 
Keep  pearls,  or  gold ; 

As  we,  when  childish  hands 

Would  play  with  fire, 
Withhold  the  burning  goal 

Of  their  desire. 

Yet  choose  Thou  for  me — Thou 

Who  knowest  best; 
This  one  short  prayer  of  mine 

Holds  all  the  rest! 


WINTER. 

O  MY  roses,  lying  underneath  the  snow  ! 
Do  you  still  remember   summer's  warmth  and  glow  ? 
Do  you  thrill,  remembering  how  your  blushes  burned 
When  the  Day-god  on  you  ardent  glances  turned  ? 

Great  tree,  wildly  stretching  bare  arms  up  to  heaven, 
Do  you  think  how  softly,  on  some  warm  June  even, 
All  your  young  leaves  whispered,  all  your  birds  sang 

low, 
As  with  rhythmic  motion  boughs  swayed  to  and  fro  ? 

River,  lying  whitely  in  a  frozen  sleep, 
Know  you  how  your  pulses  used  to  throb  and  leap? 
How  you  danced  and   sparkled  on  your  happy  way, 
In  the   summer  mornings  when  the  world  was  gay  ? 

Dear  Earth,  dumbly  waiting  God's  appointed  time, 
Are  you  faint  with  longing  for  the  voice  sublime  ? 
Wrapped  in  stony  silence,  does  your  great  heart  beat, 
Listening  in  the  darkness  for  the  coming  of  His  feet? 


THE  "CHRISTUS"  OF  THE    PASSION    PLAY 
OF    OBERAMMERGAU. 

How  does  life  seem  to  thee?     I  long  to  look 
Into  thine  inmost  soul,  and  see  if  thou 
Art  even  as  other  men!     Oh,  set  apart 
And  consecrate  so  long  to  purpose  high, 
Canst  thou  take  up  again  our  common  lot, 
And  live  as  we  live  ?     Canst  thou  buy  and  sell, 
Stoop  to  small  needs,  and  petty  ministries, 
Work  and  get  gain,  eat,  drink,  and  soundly  sleep, 
Sin  and  repent,  as  these  thy  brethren  do  ? 
Unto  what  name  less  sacred  answerest  thou 
Who  hast  been  called  the  Christ  of  Nazareth  ? 
Thou  who  hast  worn  the  awful  crown  of  thorns, 
Hanging  like  Him  upon  the  dreadful  Tree, 
Canst  thou,  uncrowned,  forget  thy  royalty  ? 


THE    MOUNTAIN    ROAD. 

ONLY  a  glimpse  of  mountain  road 
That  followed  where  a  river  flowed; 
Only  a  glimpse — then  on  we  passed 
Skirting  the  forest  dim  and  vast 

I  closed  my  eyes.     On  rushed  the  train 
Into  the  dark,  then  out  again, 
Startling  the  song-birds  as  it  flew 
The  wild  ravines  and  gorges  through. 

But,  heeding  not  the  dangerous  way 
O'erhung  by  sheer  cliffs,  rough  and  gray, 
I  only  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
The  road  beside  the  mountain  stream. 

No  smoke  curled  upward  in  the  air, 

No  meadow-lands  stretched  broad  and  fair; 


THE    MOUNTAIN   ROAD.  117 

But  towering  peaks  rose  far  and  high, 
Piercing  the  clear,  untroubled  sky. 

Yet  down  the  yellow,  winding  road 
That  followed  where  the  river  flowed, 
I  saw  a  long  procession  pass 
As  shadows  over  bending  grass. 

The  young,  the  old,  the  sad,  the  gay, 
Whose  feet  had  worn  that  narrow  way, 
Since  first  within  the  dusky  glade 
Some  Indian  lover  wooed  his  maid ; 

Or  silent  crept  from  tree  to  tree — 

Spirit  of  stealthy  vengeance,  he ! 

Or  breathless  crouched  while  through  the    brake 

The  wild  deer  stole  his  thirst  to  slake. 

The  barefoot  school-boys  rushing  out 
An  eager,  crowding,  roisterous  rout ; 
The  sturdy  lads;    the  lassies  gay 
As  bobolinks  in  merry  May  ; 


ii8  THE    MOUNTAIN  ROAD. 

The  farmer  whistling  to  his  team 
When  first  the  dawn  begins  to  gleam; 
The  loaded  wains  that  one  by  one 
Drag  slowly  home  at  set  of  sun ; 

Young  lovers  straying  hand  in  hand 
Within  a  fair,  enchanted  land  ; 
And  many  a  bride  with  lingering  feet ; 
And  many  a  matron  calm  and  sweet ; 

And  many  an  old  man  bent  with  pain ; 
And  many  a  solemn  funeral  train ; 
And  sometimes,  red  against  the  sky, 
An  army's  banners  waving  high ! 

All  mysteries  of  life  and  death 
To  which  the  spirit  answereth, 
Are  thine,  O  lonely  mountain  road> 
That  followed  where  the  river  flowed  ! 


ENTERING   IN. 


THE  church  was  dim  and  silent 

With  the  hush  before  the  prayer, 
Only  the  solemn  trembling 

Of  the  organ  stirred  the  air; 
Without,  the  sweet,  still  sunshine; 

Within,  the  holy  calm 
Where  priest  and  people  waited 

For  the  swelling  of  the  psalm. 

Slowly  the  door  swung  open, 

And  a  little  baby  girl, 
Brown-eyed,  with  brown  hair  falling 

In  many  a  wavy  curl, 

IT9 


ENTERING    IN. 

With  soft  cheeks  flushing  hotly, 
Shy  glances  downward  thrown, 

And  small  hands  clasped  before  her, 
Stood  in  the  aisle  alone. 

Stood  half  abashed,  half  frightened 

Unknowing  where  to  go, 
While  like  a  wind-rocked  flower, 

Her  form  swayed  to  and  fro, 
And  the  changing  color  fluttered 

In  the  little  troubled  face, 
As  from  side  to  side  she  wavered 

With  a  mute,  imploring  grace. 

It  was  but  for  a  moment; 

What  wonder  that  we  smiled, 
By  such  a  strange,  sweet  picture 

From  holy  thoughts  beguiled  ? 
Then  up  rose  some  one  softly; 

And  many  an  eye  grew  dim, 
As  through  the  tender  silence 

He  bore  the  child  with  him. 


ENTERING    IN.  121 

And  I  —  I  wondered  (losing 

The  sermon  and  the  prayer) 
If  when  sometime  I  enter 

The  "  many  mansions  "  fair, 
And  stand,  abashed  and  drooping, 

In  the  portal's  golden  glow, 
Our  God  will  send  an  angel 

To  show  me  where  to  go  ! 


16 


THE   DIFFERENCE. 

ONLY  a  week  ago  and  thou  wert  here ! 

I  touched  thy  hand,  I  saw  thy  dear,  dark  eyes, 
I  kissed  thy  tender  lips,  I  felt  thee   near, 

I  spake,  and  listened  to  thy  low  replies. 

To-day  what  leagues  between  us !      Hill  and  vale, 
The  rolling  prairies  and  the  mighty  seas; 

Gray  forest  reaches  where  the  wild  winds  wail, 
And  mountain  crests  uplifted  to  the  breeze ! 

So  far  thou  art,  who  wert  of  late  so  near  ! 

The   stars  we  watched   have   changed   not   in   the 

skies ; 
Still  do  thy  hyacinth  bells  their  beauty  wear, 

Yet  half  a  continent  between  us  lies ! 


THE   DIFFERENCE.  123 

But  swift  as  thought  along  the    "  singing  wires  " 
There  flies  a  message  like  a  bright- winged  bird — 

"  All  's   well !      All  's  well ! "    and   ne'er   from  wood 
land  choirs 
By  gladder  music  hath  the  air  been  stirred! 


But  thou,  O  thou,  who  but  a  week  ago, 

Passed  calmly  out  beyond   our  yearning  gaze, 

As  some  grand  ship  all  solemnly  and  slow 

Sails  out  of  sight  beyond  the  gathering  haze  — 

Oh,  where  art  thou  ?  In  what  far  distant  realm, 
What  star  in  yon  resplendent  fields  of  light, 

On  what  fair  isle  that  no  rude  seas  may  whelm, 
Dost  thou,  O  brother,  find  thy  home  to-night  ? 

Or  art  thou  near  us  ?     There  are  those  who  say 
That     but     a     breath     divides     our     world     from 
thine ; 

A  little  cloud  that  may  be  blown  away — 
A  gossamer  veil  than  spider's  web  more  fine. 


I24  THE  DIFFERENCE. 

Dost  thou,  a  shadowy  presence,  linger   near 
Thine     own    loved   haunts,    the    paths    thou    wert 

wont  to  tread, 
Where    woods    were    still,    and    shining    brooks    ran 

clear, 
And  waving  boughs  arched  greenly  overhead  ? 

Oh !  be  thou  far  or  near,  it  is  the  same ! 

From  thee  there  floats  no  message  thro'  the  air ; 
No  glad  "  All  's  well "  comes  to  us  in   thy  name 

That  we  the  joy  of  thy  new  life  may  share ! 


THOU    KNOWEST. 

THOU  knowest,  O  my  Father!     Why  should  I 

Weary  high  heaven  with  restless  prayers  and  tears  ? 

Thou  knowest  all!      My  heart's  unuttered  cry 

Hath  soared  beyond  the  stars  and   reached  Thine 
ears. 

Thou  knowest — ah,  Thou  knowest !    Then  what  need, 
O,  loving  God,  to  tell  Thee  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  with  persistent  iteration  plead 

As  one  who  crieth  at  some  closed  door  ? 

"  Tease  not !  "  we  mothers  to  our  children  say,  — 
"  Our  wiser  love  will  grant  whate'er  is  best." 

Shall  we,  Thy  children,  run  to  Thee  alway, 
Begging  for  this  and  that  in  wild  unrest  ? 

I  dare  not  clamor  at  the  heavenly  gate, 

Lest  I  should   lose  the  high,  sweet  strains  within ; 

O,  Love  Divine !  I  can  but  stand  and  wait 
Till  Perfect  Wisdom  bids  me  enter  in ! 
125 


A  FLOWER   FOR  THE   DEAD. 

You  placed  this  flower  in  her  hand,  you  say  ? 
This  pure,  pale  rose  in  her  hand  of  clay  ? 
Methinks  could  she  lift  her  sealed  eyes 
They  would  meet  your  own  with  a  grieved  surprise ! 

She  has  been  your  wife  for  many  a  year, 

When  clouds  hung  low  and  when  skies  were  clear; 

At  your  feet  she  laid  her  life's  glad  spring, 

And  her  summer's  glorious  blossoming. 

Her  whole  heart  went  with  the  hand  you  won; 
If  its  warm  love  waned  as  the  years  went  on, 
If  it  chilled  in  the  grasp  of  an  icy  spell, 
What  was  the  reason  ?     I  pray  you  tell ! 

You  cannot  ?     I  can ;  and  beside  her  bier 
My  soul  must  speak  and  your  soul  must  hear. 
126 


A   FLOWER  FOR    THE  DEAD.  127 

If  she  was  not  all  that  she  might  have  been, 
Hers  was  the  sorrow,  yours  the  sin. 

Whose  was  the  fault  if  she  did  not  grow 
Like  a  rose  in  the  summer  ?     Do  you  know  ? 
Does  a  lily  grow  when  its  leaves  are  chilled  ? 
Does  it  bloom  when  its  root  is  winter-killed  ? 

For  a  little  while,  when  you  first  were  wed, 
Your  love  was  like  sunshine  round  her  shed ; 
Then  a  something  crept  between  you  two, 
You  led  where  she  could  not  follow  you. 

With  a  man's  firm  tread  you  went  and  came ; 
You  lived  for  wealth,  for  power,  for  fame; 
Shut  in  to  her  woman's  work  and  ways, 
She  heard  the  nation  chant  your  praise. 

But  ah !  you  had  dropped  her  hand  the  while ; 
What  time  had  you  for  a  kiss,  a  smile  ? 
You  two,  with  the  same  roof  overhead, 
Were  as  far  apart  as  the  sundered  dead ! 


128  A    FLOWER  FOR    THE  DEAD. 

You,  in  your  manhood's  strength  and  prime ; 
She,  worn  and  faded  before  her  time. 
'T  is  a  common  story.     This  rose,  you  say, 
You  laid  in  her  pallid  hand  to-day  ? 

When  did  you  give  her  a  flower  before  ? 
Ah,  well !  — What  matter  when  all  is  o'er  ? 
Yet  stay  a  moment ;  you  '11  wed  again. 
I  mean  no  reproach ;  't  is  the  way  of  men. 

But  I  pray  you  think  when  some  fairer  face 
Shines  like  a  star  from  her  wonted  place, 
That  love  will  starve  if  it  is  not  fed ; 
That  true  hearts  pray  for  their  daily  bread. 


A   RED    ROSE. 

O  ROSE,  my  red,  red  Rose, 

Where  has  thy  beauty  fled  ? 
Low  in  the  west  is  a  sea  of  fire, 
But  the  great  white  moon  soars  high  and  higher, 

As  my  garden  walks  I  tread. 

Thy  white  rose-sisters  gleam 

Like  stars  in  the  darkening  sky; 
They  bend  their  brows  with  a  sudden  thrill 
To  the  kiss  of  the  night-dews  soft  and  still, 

When  the  warm  south  wind  floats  by. 

And  the  stately  lilies  stand 

Fair  in  the  silvery  light, 
Like  saintly  vestals,  pale  in  prayer; 
Their  pure  breath  sanctifies  the  air, 

As  its  fragrance  fills  the  night. 

17  129 


130  A   RED  ROSE. 

But  O,  my  red,  red  Rose! 

My  Rose  with  the  crimson  lips ! 
So  bright  thou  wert  in  the  sunny  morn, 
Yet  now  thou  art  hiding  all  forlorn, 

And  thy  soul  is  in  drear  eclipse ! 

Dost  thou  mourn  thy  lover  dead — 

Thy  lover,  the  lordly  Sun  ? 
Didst  thou  see  him  sink  in  the  glowing  west  ? 
With  pomp  of  banners  above  his  rest  ? 

He  shall  rise  again,  sweet  one! 

He  shall  rise  with  his  eye  of  fire — 
And  thy  passionate  heart  shall  beat, 

And  thy  radiant  blushes  burn  again, 

With  the  joy  of  rapture  after  pain 
At  the  coming  of  his  feet ! 


MY   BIRTHDAY. 

MY  birthday! — "How  many  years  ago? 

Twenty  or  thirty  ?  "  Don't  ask  me ! 
"  Forty  or  fifty  ?  " — How  can  I  tell  ? 

I  do  not  remember  my  birth,  you  see! 

It  is  hearsay  evidence — nothing  more ! 

Once  on  a  time,  the  legends  say, 
A  girl  was  born — and  that  girl  was  I. 

How  can  I  vouch  for  the  truth,  I  pray  ? 

I  know  I  am  here,  but  when  I  came 
Let  some  one  wiser  than  I  am  tell! 

Did  this  sweet  flower  you  plucked  for  me 
Know  when  its  bud  began  to  swell? 

How  old  am  I  ?     You  ought  to  know 
Without  any  telling  of  mine,  my  dear! 


132  MY  BIRTHDAY. 

For  when  I  came  to  this  happy  earth 
Were  you  not  waiting  for  me  here  ? 

A  dark-eyed  boy  on  the  northern  hills, 
Chasing  the  hours  with  flying  feet, 

Did  you  not  know  your  wife  was  born, 
By  a  subtile  prescience,  faint  yet  sweet  ? 

Did  never  a  breath  from  the  south-land  come 
With  sunshine  laden  and  rare  perfume 

To  lift  your  hair  with  a  soft  caress, 

And  waken  your  heart  to  richer  bloom? 

Not  one?     O  mystery  strange  as  life! — 
To  think  that  we  who  are  now  so  dear 

Were  once  in  our  dreams  so  far  apart, 
Nor  cared  if  the  other  were  far  or  near! 

But — how  old  am  I  ?     You  must  tell. 

Just  as  old  as  I  seem  to  you ! 
Nor  shall  I  a  day  older  be 

While  life  remaineth  and  love  is  true! 


TWENTY-ONE. 

GROWN  to  man's  stature !     O  my  little  child ! 

My  bird  that  sought  the  skies  so  long  ago! 
My  fair,  sweet  blossom,  pure  and  undefiled, 

How  have  the  years  flown  since  we  laid  thee  low ' 

What  have  they  been  to  thee  ?     If  thou  wert  here 
Standing  beside  thy  brothers,  tall  and  fair, 

With  bearded  lip,  and  dark  eyes  shining  clear, 
And  glints  of  summer  sunshine  in  thy  hair, 

I  should  look  up  into  thy  face  and  say, 

Wavering,  perhaps,  between  a  tear  and  smile, 

"  O  my  sweet  son,  thou  art  a  man  to-day !  " — 
And  thou  wouldst  stoop  to  kiss  my  lips  the  while. 

But — up  in  heaven — how  is  it  with  thee,  dear? 
Art  thou  a  man — to  man's  full  stature  grown  ? 


134  TWENTY-ONE. 

Dost  thou  count  time  as  we  do,  year  by  year? 
And  what  of  all  earth's  changes  hast  thou  known? 

Thou  hadst  not  learned  to  love  me.    Didst  thou  take 
Any  small  germ  of  love  to  heaven  with  thee, 

That  thou  hast  watched  and  nurtured  for  my  sake, 
Waiting  till  I  its  perfect  flower  may  see  ? 

What  is  it  to  have  lived  in  heaven  always? 

To  have  no  memory  of  pain  or  sin  ? 
Ne'er  to  have  known  in  all  the  calm,  bright  days, 

The  jar  and  fret  of  earth's  discordant  din  ? 

Thy  brothers — they  are  mortal — they  must  tread 
Ofttimes  in  rough,  hard  ways,  with  bleeding  feet; 

Must  fight  with  dragons,  must  bewail  their  dead, 
And  fierce  Apollyon  face  to  face  must  meet. 

I,  who  would  give  my  very  life  for  theirs, 
I  cannot  save  them  from  earth's  pain  or  loss; 

I  cannot  shield  them  from  its  griefs  or  cares; 
Each  human  heart  must  bear  alone  its  cross! 


TWENTY-ONE.  135 

Was  God,  then,  kinder  unto  thee  than  them, 
O  thou  whose  little  life  was  but  a  span  ? 

Ah,  think  it  not!     In  all  his  diadem 

No  star  shines  brighter  than  the  kingly  man, 

Who  nobly  earns  whatever  crown  he  wears, 
Who  grandly  conquers,  or  as  grandly  dies; 

And  the  white  banner  of  his  manhood  bears, 
Through  all  the  years  uplifted  to  the,  skies ! 

What  lofty  pseans  shall  the  victor  greet ! 

What  crown  resplendent  for  his  brow  be  fit ! 
O  child,  if  earthly  life  be  bitter-sweet, 

Hast  thou  not  something  missed  in  missing  it  ? 


THOMAS   MOORE. 

MAY  28,  1779-1879. 

HUSH! — O  be  ye  silent,  all  ye  birds  of  May! 
Cease  the  high,  clear  trilling  of  your  roundelay 
Be  the  merry  minstrels  mute  in  vale,  on  hill, 
And  in  every  tree-top  let  the  song  be  still ! 

O  ye  winds,  breathe  softly !     Let  your  voices  die 
In  a  low,  faint  whisper,  sweet  as  love's  first  sigh ; 
O  ye  zephyrs,  blowing  over  beds  of  flowers, 
Be  ye  still  as  dews  are  in  the  starry  hours ! 

O  ye  laughing  waters,  leaping  here  and  there, 
Filling  with  sweet  clamor  all  the  summer  air, 
Can  ye  not  be  quiet  ?     Hush,  ye  mountain  streams, 
Dancing  to  glad  music  from  the  world  of  dreams ! 
136 


THOMAS  MOORE.  137 

And  thou,  mighty  ocean,  beating  on  the  shore, 
Bid  thy  angry  billows  stay  their  thunderous  roar ! 
O  ye  waves,  lapse  softly,  in  such  slumberous  calm 
As  ye  know  when  circling  isles  of  crested  palm ! 

Bells  in  tower  and  steeple,  be  ye  mute  to-day 
As  the  bell-flowers  rocking  in  the  winds  of  May ! 
Cease    awhile,   ye    minstrels,   though   your    notes   be 

clear 
As  the  strains  that  soar  in  heaven's  high  atmosphere ! 

Earth,  bid  all  thy  children  hearken, — for  a  voice, 
Sweeter  than  a  seraph's,  bids  their  hearts  rejoice; 
Floating  down  the  silence  of  a  hundred  years, 
Lo !  its  deathless  music  thrills  our  listening  ears ! 

'T  is  the  one  our  fathers  loved  so  long  ago, 

The   same   songs   it   taught  them  warbling  clear  and 

low;  — 

Hark,  "  Ye  Disconsolate ! "  while  the  voice  so  pure 
Sings  — "  Earth   has   no   sorrow   that   heaven   cannot 

cure !  " 

18 


138  THOMAS  MOORE. 

Sings  of  love's  wild  rapture  triumphing  o'er  pain, 
Glorying  in  giving,  counting  loss  but  gain ; 
Sings  the  warrior's  passion  and  the  patriot's  pride, 
And  the  brave,  unshrinking,  who  for  glory  died;  — 

Sings  of  Erin  smiling  through  a  mist  of  tears ; 
Of  her  patient  waiting  all  the  weary  years ; 
Sings  the  pain  of  parting,  and  the  joy  divine 
When  the  bliss  of  meeting  stirs  the  heart  like  wine;  — 

Sings  of  memories  waking  in  "  the  stilly  night " ; 
Of  the  "  young  dreams  "  fading  in  the  morning  light ; 
Of  the  "  rose  of  summer  "  perishing  too  soon ; 
Of  the  early  splendors  waning  ere  the  noon  ! 

O  thou  tender  singer !     All  the  air  to-day 
Trembles  with  the  burden  of  thy  "  farewell  "  lay ; 
Crowns    and    thrones    may    crumble,    into    darkness 

hurled, 
Yet  is  song  immortal ;  song  shall  rule  the  world ! 


SINGING   IN    THE    DARK. 

O  YE  little  warblers,  flying  fast  and  far 

From  the  balmy  south-land,  where  the  roses  are, 

Robins  red  and  blue-birds,  do  ye  faint  to  see 

How  the  chill  snow-blossoms  whiten  shrub  and  tree? 

Through    the    snowy    valley    cold    the    north    winds 

sweep ; 

Mother  Earth,  half-wakened,  turns  again  to  sleep; 
Silent  lies  the  river  in  an  icy  trance, 
And  the  frozen   meadows  wait  the  sun's  hot   glance. 

Dull   and   gray  the   skies    are.      Soft   and   blue   were 

those 

That  so  late  above  you  bent  at  daylight's  close; 
Do  ye  grieve,  remembering  all  the  balm  and  bloom, 
All  the  warmth  and  sweetness  of  the  starlit  gloom  ? 
139 


140  SINGING  IN  THE  DARK. 

Do  ye  sadly  wonder  what  strange  impulse  drew 
All  your  flashing  pinions  the  far  ether  through  ? 
Do  ye  count  it  madness  that  so  wide  ye  strayed 
From  the  starry  jasmine  and  the  orange  shade  ? 

Yet  this  morn  I  heard  ye  singing  in  the  dark, 
Songs   of  such   rare   sweetness  that  the  world   might 

hark! 

O  ye  blessed  minstrels,  silent  not  for  pain, 
God    is   in   the   heavens,  and    your   sun    shall   shine 

again ! 


TWO   SONNETS. 


WHEN  I  awake  at  morn,  refreshed,  renewed, 
Glad  with  the  gladness  of  the  jocund  day 
And  jubilant  with  all  the  birds  of  May, 

My  spirit  shrinks  from  Night's  dull  quietude. 

With  it  and  Sleep  I  have  a  deadly  feud. 
I  hear  the  young  winds  in  the  maples  play, 
The  river  singing  on  its  happy  way, 

The  swallows  twittering  to  their  callow  brood. 

The  fresh,  fair  earth  is  full  of  joyous  life ; 
The  tree-tops  toss  in  billowy  unrest; 
The  very  mountain  shadows  are  astir ! 

With  eager  heart  I  thrill  to  join  the  strife; 
Doing,  not  dreaming,  to  my  soul  seems  best, 
And  I  am  lordly  Day's  true  worshiper! 


142  TWO   SONNETS. 


II. 

BUT  when  with  Day's  long  weariness  oppressed, 
With  folded  hands  I  watch  the  sun  go  down, 
Lighting  far  ^torches  in  the  steepled  town, 

And  kindling  all  the  glowing,  reddening  west; 

When  every  sleepy  bird  has  sought  its  nest ; 

When  the  long  shadows  from  the  hills  are  thrown, 
And  Night's  soft  airs  about  the  world  are  blown, 

Thou  heart  of  mine,  how  sweet  it  is  to  rest ! 

O,  Israfil !     Thou  of  the  tuneful  voice ! 

It  will  be  night-fall  when  thy  voice  I  hear, 
Summoning  me  to  slumber  -soft  and  low ! 

Day  will  be  done.     Then  will  I  not  rejoice 
That  all  my  tasks  are  o'er  and  rest  is  near, 
And,  like  a  tired  child,  be  glad  to  go? 


TO  ZULMA. 


SOMETIMES  my  heart  grows  faint  with  longing,  dear, — 

Longing  to  see  thy  face,  to  touch  thy  hand. 

But  mountains  rise  between  us ;  leagues  of  land 
Stretch  on  and  on  where  mighty  lakes  lie  clear 
In  the  far  spaces,  and  great  forests  rear 

Their  somber  crowns  on  many  a  lonely  strand ! 

Yet,  O  my  fair  child,  canst  thou  understand, 
Thou  whose  dear  place  was  once  beside  me  here, 
How  yet  I  dare  not  pray  that  thou  and"  I 

Again  may  dwell  together  as  of  old  ? 

There  is  a  gate  between  us,  locked  and  barred, 
Over  which  we  may  not  climb,  and  standing  nigh 

Is  the  white  angel  Sorrow,  who  doth  hold 
The  only  key  that  may  unlock  its  ward ! 


144  TO   ZULMA. 


II. 

YET  think  not  I  would  have  it  otherwise ! 

Our   God,   who   knoweth   women's    hearts,   knows 
best  — 

And  every  little  bird  must  build  its  nest 
From  whence  it  soareth,  singing,  to  the  skies. 
What  though  the  one  that  thou  hast  builded  lies 

Where  sinks  the  sun  to  its  enchanted  rest, 

If,  on  each  breeze  that  bloweth  east  or  west, 
To  thee,  on  swiftest  wing,  my  spirit  flies? 
We  are  not  far  apart,  and  ne'er  shall  be ! 

For  Love,  like  God,  knoweth  not  time,  nor  space, 

And  it  is  freer  than  the  viewless  air; 
And  well  I  know,  beloved,  that  if  we 

Trod  different  planets  in  yon  starry  space 

We  should  reach  out,  and  find  each  other  there! 


MERCfiDES. 

(JUNE  2;th,  1878.) 

O  FAIR  young  queen,  who  liest  dead  to-day 
In  thy  proud  palace  o'er  the  moaning  sea, 
With  still,  white  hands  that  never  more  may  be 

Lifted  to  pluck  life's  roses  bright  with  May — 

Little  is  it  to  you  that,  far  away, 
Where  skies  you  knew  not  bend  above  the  free, 
Hearts  touched  with  tender  pity  turn  to  thee, 

And  for  thy  sake  a  shadow  dims  the  day  ! 

But  youth  and  love  and  womanhood  are  one, 
Though  across  sundering  seas  their  signals  fly; 

Young  Love's  pure  kiss,  the  joy  but  just  begun, 
The  hope  of  motherhood,  thy  people's  cry — 
O  thou  fair  child  !  was  it  not  hard  to  die 

And  leave  so  much  beneath  the  summer  sun? 


J9  MS 


SLEEP. 

WHO  calls  thee  "gentle  Sleep?" — O!  rare  coquette, 
Who  comest   crowned  with  poppies,  thou   shouldst 

wear 
Nettles  instead,  or  thistles,  in  thy  hair; 

For  thou  'rt  the  veriest  elf  that  ever  yet 

Made  weary  mortals  sigh  and  toss  and  fret ! 
Thou  dost  float  softly  through  the  drowsy  air 
Hovering   as  if  to  kiss  my  lips  and  share 

My  restless  pillow;  but  ere  I  can  set 

My  arms  to  clasp  thee,  without  sign  or  speech, 
Save    one    swift,    mocking    smile    thou  'rt    out    of 
reach ! 

Yet,  sometime,  thou,  or  one  as  like  to  thee 
As  sister  is  to  sister,  shalt  draw  near 
With  such  soft  lullabies  for  my  dull  ear, 

That  neither  life  nor  love  shall  waken  me ! 


146 


TO-DAY. 

WHAT  dost  thou  bring  to  me,  O  fair  To-day, 
That  contest  o'er  the  mountains  with  swift  feet  ? 
All  the  young  birds  make  haste  thy  steps  to  greet 

And  all  the  dewy  roses  of  the  May 

Turn  red  and  white  with  joy.     The  breezes  play 
On  their  soft  harps  a  welcome  low  and  sweet ; 
All  nature  hails  thee,  glad  thy  face  to  meet, 

And  owns  thy  presence  in  a  brighter  ray. 
But  my  poor  soul  distrusts  thee !     One  as  fair 

As  thou  art,  O  To-day,  drew  near  to  me, 
Serene  and  smiling,  yet  she  bade  me  wear 
The  sudden  sackcloth  of  a  great  despair! 
O,  pitiless!  that  through  the  wandering  air 

Sent  no  kind  warning  of  the  ill  to  be ! 


147 


GRASS-GROWN. 

GRASS  grows  at  last  above  all  graves,  you  say  ? — 

Why,  therein  lies  the  sharpest  sting  of  all ! 

To  think  that  stars  will  rise  and  dews  will  fall, 
Hills  flush  with  purple  splendor,  soft  winds  play 
Where  roses  bloom  and  violets  of  May, 

Robin  to  robin  in  the  tree-tops  call, 

And  all  sweet  sights  and  sounds  the  senses  thrall, 
Just  as  they  did  before  that  dreadful  day! 

Does  that  bring  comfort  ?     Are  we  glad  to  know 
That  our  eyes  sometime  must  forget  to  weep, 

Even  as  June  forgets  December's  snow  ? 
Over  the  graves  where  our  beloved  sleep, 

We  charge  thee,  Time,  let  not  the  green  grass  grow, 
Nor  your  relentless  mosses  coldly  creep ! 


AT   THE   TOMB. 

(),  SOUL!  rememberest  thou  how  Mary  went 
In  the  gray  dawn  to  weep  beside  the  tomb 
Where   one   she    loved    lay   buried  ?     Through   the 
gloom, 

Pallid  with  pain,  and  with  long  anguish  spent, 

Still  pressed  she  on  with  solemn,  high  intent, 
Bearing  her  costly  gifts  of  rare  perfume 
And  spices  odorous  with  eastern  bloom, 

Unto  the  Master's  sepulcher!     But  rent 

Was  the  great  stone  from  its  low  door  away; 

And  when  she  stooped  to  peer  with  startled  eyes 
Into  the  dark  where  slept  the  pallid  clay, 

Lo,  it  was  gone !     And  there  in  heavenly  guise, 
So  grandly  calm,  so  fair  in  morn's  first  ray, 

She  found  an  angel  from  the  upper  skies! 


AT   REST. 

" '  WHEN  Greek   meets  Greek,'  you  know,"  he  sadly 
said, 

" '  Then  comes  the  tug  of  war.'    I  deem  him  great, 

And  own  him  wise  and  good.     Yet  adverse  fate 
Hath  made  us  enemies.     If  I  were  dead, 
And  buried  deep  with  grave-mold  on  my  head, 

I  still  believe,  that,  came  he  soon  or  late 

Where  I  was  lying  in  my  last  estate, 
My  dust  would  quiver  at  his  lightest  tread !  " 

The  slow  years  passed;  and  one  fair  summer  night, 
When  the  low  sun  was  reddening  all  the  west, 

I    saw    two    grave-mounds,   where    the    grass    was 

bright, 
Lying  so  near  each  other  that  the  crest 

Of  the  same  wave  touched  each  with  amber  light. 
But,  ah,  dear  hearts !  how  undisturbed  their  rest ! 


F.   A.    F. 

WHEN  upon  eyes  long  dim,  to  whom  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  unfamiliar  grown, — 
Eyes  that  so  long  in  deepening  shades  had  known 

The  mystic  visions  of  the  inner  sight, — 

Day  broke,  at  last,  after  the  weary  night, 
I  cannot  think  its  sudden  glory  shone 

In  pitiless  brightness,  dazzling,  clear,  and  white — 
A  piercing  splendor  on  the  darkness  thrown ! 

Softly  as  moonlight  steals  upon  the  skies, 
Slowly  as  shadows  creep  at  set  of  sun, 
Gently  as  falls  a  mother's  tender  kiss, 

So  softly  stole  the  light  upon  his  eyes; 

So  slowly  passed  the  shadows  one  by  one; 
So  gently  dawned  the  morning  of  his  bliss ! 


TOO    WIDE! 

O  MIGHTY  Earth,  thou  art  too  wide,  too  wide  I 
Too  vast  thy  continents,  too  broad  thy  seas, 
Too  far  thy  prairies  stretching  fair  as  these 

Now  reddening  in  the  sunset's  crimson  tide! 

Sundered  by  thee  how  have  thy  children  cried 
Each  to  some  other,  until  every  breeze 
Has  borne  a  burden  of  fond  messages 

That  all  unheard  in  thy  lone  wastes  have  died! 

Draw  closer,  O  dear  Earth,  thy  hills  that  soar 
Up  to  blue  skies  such  countless  leagues  apart ! 
Bid  thou  thine  awful  spaces  smaller  grow ! 

Compass  thy  billows  with  a  narrower  shore, 

That  yearning  lips  may  meet,  heart  beat  to  heart, 
And  parted  souls  forget  their  lonely  woe ! 


152 


RESURGAMUS. 

WHAT  though  we  sleep  a  thousand  leagues  apart, 

I  by  my  mountains,  you  beside  your  sea? 

What  though  our  moss-grown  graves  divided  be 
By  the  wide  reaches  of  a  continent's  heart  ? 
When  from  long  slumber  we  at  length  shall  start 

Wakened  to  stronger  life,  exultant,  free, 

This  mortal  clothed  in  immortality, 
Where  shall  I  find  my  heaven  save  where  thou  art? 
Straight  as  a  bird  that  hasteth  to  its  nest, 

Glad  as  an  eagle  soaring  to  the  light, 

Swift  as  the  thought  that  bears  my  soul  to  thine 
When  yon  lone  star  hangs  trembling  in  the  west, 

So  straight,  so  glad,  so  swift  to  thee  my  flight, 
Led  on  through  farthest  space  by  love  divine ! 


20 


153 


IN    KING'S   CHAPEL. 

(BOSTON,  Nov.  3,  1878.) 

O,  LORD  OF  HOSTS,  how  sacred  is  this  place, 
Where,  though  the  tides  of  time  resistless  flow, 
And  the  long  generations  come  and  go, 

Thou  still  abidest!     In  this  holy  space 

The  very  airs  are  hushed  before  Thy  face, 
And  wait  in  reverent  calm,  as  voices  low 
Blend  in  the  prayers  and  chantings,  soft  and  slow, 

And  the  gray  twilight  stealeth  on  apace. 

Hark !    There  are  whispers  from  the  time-worn  walls ; 
The  mighty  dead  glide  up  the  shadowy  aisle; 
And  there  are  rustlings  as  of  angels'  wings 

While  from  the  choir  the  heavenly  music  falls! 
Well  may  we  bow  in  grateful  praise  the  while — 
In  the  King's  Chapel  reigns  the  King  of  Kings ! 


154 


THY    NAME. 

WHAT  matters  it  what  men  may  call  Thee,  Thou, 
The  Eternal  One,  who  reign'st  supreme,  alone, 
The  boundless  universe  Thy  mighty  throne  ? 

When  souls  before  Thee  reverently  bow, 

Oh,  carest  Thou  what  name  the  lips  breathe  low 
Jove,  or  Osiris,  or  the  God  Unknown 
To  whom  the  Athenians  raised  their  altar  stone, 

Or  Thine,  O  Holiest,  unto  whom  we  vow  ? 

The  sun  hath  many  names  in  many  lands; 
Yet  upon  all  its  golden  splendors  fall, 

Where'er,  from  age  to  age  entreating  still, 

The  adoring  earth  uplifts  its  waiting  hands. 
Love  knows  all  names  and  answereth  to  all — 
Who  worships  Thee  may  call  Thee  what  he  will ! 


155 


THREE    DAYS. 


WHAT  shall  I  bring  to  lay  upon  thy  bier 
O  Yesterday !  thou  day  forever  dead  ? 
With  what  strange  garlands  shall  I  crown  thy  head, 

Thou  silent  One  ? — For  rose  and  rue  are  near 

Which  thou  thyself  didst  bring  me ;  heart's-ease  clear 
And  dark  in  purple  opulence  that  shed 
Rare  odors  round — worm- wood,  and  herbs  that  fed 

My  soul  with  bitterness — they  all  are  here ! 

When  to  the  banquet  I  was  called  by  thee 

Thou  gavest  me  rags  and  royal  robes  to  wear; 
Honey  and  aloes  mingled  in  the  cup 

Of  costly  wine  that  thou  didst  pour  for  me ; 

Thy  throne,  thy  footstool,  thou  didst  bid  me  share ; 
On  crusts  and  heavenly  manna  bade  me  sup ! 


156 


THREE   DAYS.  157 


II. 

THOU  art  no  dreamer,  O,  thou  stern  To-day ! 

The  dead  past  had  its  dreams ;  the  real  is  thine. 

An  armored  knight,  in  panoply  divine, 
It  is  not  thine  to  loiter  by  the  way, 
Though  all  the  meads  with  summer  flowers  be  gay, 

Though   birds    sing   for  thee,  and  though  fair  stars 
shine, 

And  every  god  pours  for  thee  life's  best  wine ! 
Nor  friend  nor  foe  hath  strength  to  bid  thee  stay. 
Gleaming  beneath  thy  brows  with  smoldering  fire 

Thine  eyes  look  out  upon  the  eternal  hills 

As  forth  thou  ridest  with  thy  spear  in  rest. 
From  the  far  heights  a  voice  cries,  "  Come  up  higher !  " 

And  in  swift  answer  all  thy  being  thrills, 

When  lo  !  'tis  night — thy  sun  is  in  the  west! 


158  THREE   DAYS. 


III. 

BUT  thou,  To-morrow !  never  yet  was  born 
In  earth's  dull  atmosphere  a  thing  so  fair — 
Never  yet  tripped,  with  footsteps  light  as  air, 

So  glad  a  vision  o'er  the  hills  of  morn ! 

Fresh  as  the  radiant  dawning, — all  unworn 
By  lightest  touch  of  sorrow,  or  of  care, 
Thou  dost  the  glory  of  the  morning  share 

By  snowy  wings  of  hope  and  faith  upborne ! 

O,  fair  To-morrow!  what  our  souls  have  missed 
Art  thou  not  keeping  for  us,  somewhere,  still  ? 
The  buds  of  promise  that  have  never  blown  — 

The  tender  lips  that  we  have  never  kissed — 

The  song  whose  high,  sweet  strain  eludes  our  skill — 
The  one  white  pearl  that  life  hath  never  known ! 


VERMONT. 

(WRITTEN   FOR  THE  VERMONT  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION,  AT 
BENNINGTON,  AUGUST  15,  1877.) 


O,  WOMAN-FORM,  majestic,  strong  and  fair, 
Sitting  enthroned  where  in  upper  air 
Thy  mountain-peaks  in  solemn  grandeur  rise,    : 
Piercing  the  splendor  of  the  summer  skies, — 
Vermont !     Our  mighty  mother,  crowned  to-day 

In  all  the  glory  of  thine  hundred  years, 
If  thou  dost  bid  me  sing,  how  can  I  but  obey  ? 
What  though   the  lips  may  tremble,  and   the  verse 
That  fain  would  grandly  thy  grand   deeds  rehearse 
May  trip  and  falter,  and  the  stammering  tongue 
Leave  all  unrhymed  the  rhymes  that  should  be  sung  ? 
I  can  but  do  thy  bidding,  as  is  meet, 
Bowing  in  humble  homage  at  thy  feet — 
Thy  royal  feet — and  if  my  words  are  weak, 
O  crowned  one,  't  was  thou  didst  bid  me  speak ! 

159 


160  VERMONT. 

II. 

YET  what  is  there  to  say, 

Even  on  this  proud  day, 
This  day  of  days,  that  hath  not  oft  been  said  ? 

What  song  is  there  to  sing 
That  hath  not  oft  been  sung? 

What  laurel  can  we  bring, 

That  Ages  have  not  hung 
A  thousand  times  above  their  glorious  dead  ? 

What  crown  to  crown  the  living 

Is  left  us  for  our  giving, 

That  is  not  shaped  to  other  brows, 
That  wore  it  long  ago  ? 

Our  very  vows  but  echo  vows 
Breathed  centuries  ago ! 

Earth  has  no  choral  strain, 

No  sweet  or  sad  refrain, 
No  lofty  paean  swelling  loud  and  clear, 

That  Virgil  did  not  know, 

Or  Dante,  wandering  slow 
In  mystic  trances,  did  not  pause  to  hear! 


VERMONT.  161 

When  gods  from  high  Olympus  came 
To  touch  old  Homer's  lips  with  flame, 
The  morning  stars  together  sung 
To  teach  their  raptures  to  his  tongue. 
For  him  the  lonely  ocean  moaned; 
For  him  the  mighty  winds  intoned 
Their  deep-voiced  chantings,  and  for  him 
Sweet  flower-bells  pealed  in  forests  dim. 
From  earth  and  sea  and  sky  he  caught 
The  spell  of  their  divinest  thought, 
While  yet  it  blossomed  fresh  and  new 
As  Eden's  rosebuds  wet  with  dew ! 
Oh !  to  have  lived  when  earth  was  young, 
With  all  its  melodies  unsung! 
The  dome  of  Heaven  bent  nearer  then 
When  gods  and  angels  talked  with  men, — 
When  Song  itself  was  newly  born, 
The  Incarnation  of  the  Morn ! 
But  now,  alas  !  all  thought  is  old, 
All  life  is  but  a  story  told, 
And  poet-tongues  are  manifold; 
And  he  is  bold  who  tries  to  wake 
21 


162  VERMONT. 

Even  for  God,  or  Country's  sake, 
In  voice,  or  pen,  or  lute,  or  lyre, 
Sparks  of  the  old  Promethean  fire ! 


in. 

AND  yet, — O  Earth,  thank  God! — the  soul  of  song 

Is  as  immortal  as  the  eternal  stars ! 
O,  trembling  heart !  take  courage  and  be  strong. 

Hark !  to  a  voice  from  yonder  crystal  bars : — 

"  Did  the  roses  blow  last  June  ? 

Do  the  stars  still  rise  and  set  ? 
And  over  the  crests  of  the  mountains 

Are  the  light  clouds  floating  yet  ? 
Do  the  rivers  run  to  the  sea 

With  a  deep,  resistless  flow  ? 
Do  the  little  birds  sing  north  and  south 

As  the  seasons  come  and  go  ? 

"  Are  the  hills  as  fair  as  of  old? 
Are  the  skies  as  blue  and  far? 


VERMONT.  163 

Have  you  lost  the  pomp  of  the  sunset, 

Or  the  light  of  the  evening  star  ? 
Has  the  glory  gone  from  the  morning  ? 

Do  the  wild  winds  wail  no  more  ? 
Is  there  now  no  thunder  of  billows 

Beating  the  storm-lashed  shore  ? 

"  Is  Love  a  forgotten  story  ? 

Is  Passion  a  jester's  theme  ? 
Has   Valor  thrown  down  its  armor? 

Is  Honor  an  idle  dream  ? 
Is  there  no  pure  trust  in  woman  ? 

No  conquering  faith  in   God? 
Are  there  no  feet  strong  to  follow 

In  the  paths  the  martyrs  trod  ? 

"  Did  you  find  no  hero  graves 

When  your  violets  bloomed  last  May — 

Prouder  than  those  of  Marathon, 
Or  'old  Plated  s  day'  ? 

When  your  red  and  white  and  blue 
On  the  free  winds  fluttered  out, 


i64  VERMONT. 

Were  there  no  strong  hearts  and  voices 
To  receive  it  with  a  shout? 
Oh  !  let  the  Earth  grow  old? 
And  the  burning  stars  grow  cold .' 
And,  if  you  will,  declare  man's  story  told  > 

Yet,  pure  as  faith  is  pure, 

And  sure  as  death  is  sure, 

As  long  as  love  shall  live,  shall  song  endure  !  " 


IV. 

WHEN  one  by  one  the  stately,  silent  Years 

Glide  like  pale  ghosts  beyond  our  yearning  sight, 
Vainly  we  stretch  our  arms  to  stay  their  flight, 
So  soon,  so  swift,  they  pass  to  endless  night! 

We  hardly  learn  to  name  them, 

To  praise  them,  or  to  blame  them, 

To  know  their  shadowy  faces, 

Ere  we  see  their  empty  places ! 

Only  once  the  glad  Spring  greets  them; 

Only  once  fair  Summer  meets  them; 

Only  once  the  Autumn  glory 


VERMONT.  165 

Tells  for  them  its  mystic  story; 

Only  once  the  Winter  hoary 

Weaves  for  them  its  robes  of  light ! 
Years  leave  their  work  half  done ;  like  men,  alas ! 
With  sheaves  ungathered  to  their  graves  they  pass, 
And  are  forgotten.     What  they  strive  to  do 
Lives  for  a  while  in  memory  of  a  few ; 
Then  over  all  Oblivion's  waters  flow — 
The  Years  are  buried  in  the  Long  Ago ! 
But  when  a  Century  dies,  what  room  is  there  for  tears  ? 
Rather  in  solemn  exaltation  let  us  come, 
With  roll  of  drum 
(Not  muffled  as  in  woe), 
With  blare  of  bugles,  and  the  liquid  flow 
Of  silver  clarions,  and  the  long  appeal 
Of  the  clear  trumpets  ringing  peal  on  peal 
With  clash  of  bells,  and  hosts  in  proud  array 
To  pay  meet  homage  to  its  burial  day ! 
For  its  proud  work  is  done.     Its  name  is  writ 
Where  all  the  ages  that  come  after  it 
Shall  read  the  eternal  letters,  blazoned  high 
On  the  blue  dome  of  the  impartial  sky. 


166  VERMONT. 

What  ruthless  fate  can  darken  its  renown, 
Or  dim  the  luster  of  its  starry  crown  ? 
On    mountain-peaks    of   Time    each    Century   stands 

alone ; 

And  each,  for  glory  or  for  shame,  hath    reaped   what 
it  hath  sown ! 

v. 

BUT  this — the  one  that  gave  thee  birth 
A  hundred  years  ago,  O  beauteous  mother! 
This  mighty  century  had  a  mightier  brother, 

Who  from  the  watching  earth 

Passed  but  last  year !    Twin-born  indeed  were  they, — 
For  what  are  twelve  months  to  the  womb  of  time 
Pregnant  with  ages? — Hand  in  hand  they  climbed 
With  clear,  young  eyes  uplifted  to  the  stars, 
With  great,  strong  souls  that  never  stopped  for  bars, 
Through  storm  and  darkness  up  to  glorious  day ! 
Each  knew  the  other's  need;  each  in  his  breast 
The  subtle  tie  of  closest  kin  confessed ; 
Counted  the  other's  honor  as  his  own ; 
Nor  feared  to  sit  upon  a  separate  throne ; 


VERMONT.  167 

Nor  loved  each  other  less  when — wondrous  fate  !  — 
One  gave  a  Nation  life,  and  one  a  State! 


VI. 

OH  !  rude  the  cradle  in  which  each  was  rocked, — 

The  infant  Nation,  and  the  infant  State ! 
Rough  nurses  were  the  Centuries,  that  mocked 
At  mother-kisses,  and  for  mother-arms 
Gave  their  young  nurslings  sudden  harsh  alarms, 
Quick    blows    and    stern   rebuffs.      They  bade   them 

wait, 

Often  in  cold  and  hunger,  while  the  feast 
Was  spread  for  others,  and,  though  last  not  least, 
Gave  them  sharp  swords  for  playthings,  and   the  din 
Of  actual  battle  for  the  mimic  strife 

That  childhood  glories  in ! 

Yet  not  the  less  they  loved  them.     Spartans  they 
Who  could  not  rear  a  weak,  effeminate  brood. 
Better  the  forest's  awful  solitude, 
Better  the  desert  spaces,  where  the  day 
Wanders  from  dawn  to  dusk  and  finds  no  life ! 


168  VERMONT. 

VII. 

BUT  over  all  the  tireless  years  swept  on, 

Till  side  by  side  the  Centuries  grew  old, 

And  the  young  Nation,  great  and  strong  and  bold, 
Forgot  its  early  struggles,  in  triumphs  later  won ! 

It  stretched  its  arms  from  East  to  West ; 

It  gathered  to  its  mighty  breast 

From  every  clime,  from  every  soil, 

The  hunted  sons  of  want  and  toil ; 

It  gave  to  each  a  dwelling-place; 

It  blent  them  in  one  common  race; 

And  over  all,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Wide  flew  the  banner  of  the  free ! 

It  did  not  fear  the  wrath  of  kings, 

Nor  the  dread  grip  of  deadlier  things — 

Gaunt  Famine  with  its  ghastly  horde, 

Dishonor  sheathing  its  foul  sword, 

Nor  faithless  friend,  nor  treacherous  blow 

Struck  in  the  dark  by  stealthy  foe; 

For  over  all  its  wide  domain, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  main  to  main, 


VERMONT.  169 


From  vale  to  mountain-top,  it  saw 
The  reign  of.  plenty,  peace,  and  law ! 


VIII. 

THUS  fared  the  Nation,  prosperous,  great,  and  free, 
Prophet  and  herald  of  the  good  to  be ; 
And  on  its  humbler  way,  in  calm  content, 
The  lesser  State,  the  while,  serenely  went. 
Safe  in  her  mountain  fastnesses  she  dwelt, 
Her  life's  first  cares  forgot,  its  woes  unfelt, 
And  thought  her  bitterest  tears  had  all  been  shed, 
For    peace    was    in    her  borders,    and    God    reigned 
overhead. 

IX. 

BUT  suddenly  over  the  hills  there  came 

A  cry  that  rent  her  with  grief  and  shame — 

A  cry  from  the  Nation  in  sore  distress, 

Stricken  down  in  the  pride  of  its  mightiness ! 

With  passionate  ardor  up  she  sprang, 

And  her  voice  like  the  peal  of  a  trumpet  rang, 

22 


1 70  VERMONT. 

"  What  ho  !  what  ho !  brave  sons  of  mine, 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  the  mountain  pine ! 
To  the  front  of  the  battle,  away  !  away ! 
The  Nation  is  bleeding  in  deadly  fray, 
The  Nation,  it  may  be,  is  dying  to-day ! 
On,  then,  to  the  rescue !  away  !  away  !  " 


x. 

AH  !  how  they  answered  let  the  ages  tell, 

For  they  shall  guard  the  sacred  story  well! 

Green  grows  the  grass,  to-day,  on  many  a  battle-field ; 

War's  dread  alarms  are  o'er;  its  scars  are  healed; 

Its  bitter  agony  has  found  surcease ; 

A  re-united  land  clasps  hands  in  peace. 

But,  oh!  ye  blessed  dead,  whose  graves  are  strown 

From  where  our  forests  make  perpetual  moan, 

To  those  far  shores  where  smiling  Southern  seas 

Give  back  soft  murmurs  to  the  fragrant  breeze, — 

Oh!  ye  who  drained  for  us  the  bitter  cup, 

Think  ye  we  can  forget  what  ye  have  offered  up  ? 

The  years  will  come  and  go,  and  other  centuries  die, 


VERMONT.  171 

And  generation  after  generation  lie 

Down  in  the  dust;  but  long  as  stars  shall  shine, 

Long  as  Vermont's  green  hills  shall  bear  the  pine, 

As  long  as  Killington  shall  proudly  lift 

Its  lofty  peak  above  the  storm-cloud's  rift, 

Or  Mansfield  hail  the  blue,  o'erarching  skies, 

Or  fair  Mount  Anthony  in  grandeur  rise, 

So  long  shall  live  the  deeds  that  ye  have  done, 

So  deathless  be  the  glory  ye  have  won ! 

XI. 

NOT  with  exultant  joy 

And  pride  without  alloy, 
Did  the  twin  Centuries  rejoice  when  all  was  o'er. 

What  though  the  Nation  rose 

Triumphant  o'er  its  foes  ? 

What  though  the  State  had  gained 

The  meed  of  faith  unstained  ? 

Their  mighty  hearts  remembered  the  dead  that  came 
no  more ! 

Remembered  all  the  losses, 

The  weary,  weary  crosses, 


172  VERMONT. 

Remembered    earth   was    poorer  for   the    blood    that 

had  been  shed, 
And   knew  that   it   was   sadder  for   the   story  it   had 

read ! 

So  clasping  hands  with  somewhat  saddened  mien, 
And  eyes  uplifted  to  the  Great  Unseen 
That  rules  alike  o'er  Centuries  and  men, 
Onward   they  walked   serenely  towards — the  End! 


XII. 

ONE  reached  it  last  year.     Ye  remember  well 
The  wondrous  tale  there  is  no  need  to  tell  — 
How  the  whole  world  bowed  down  beside  its  bier, 
How  all  the  Nations  came,  from  far  or  near, 
Heaping  their  treasures  on  its  mighty  pall — 
Never  had  kingliest  king  such  funeral! 
Old  Asia  rose,  and  girding  her  in  haste, 
Swept  in  her  jeweled  robes  across  the  waste, 
And  called  to  Egypt  lying  prone  and  hid 
Where  waits  the  Sphinx  beside  the  pyramid; 
Fair  Europe  came  with  overflowing  hands, 


VERMONT.  173 

Bearing  the  riches  of  her  many  lands ; 
Dark  Afric,  laden  with  her  virgin  gold, 
Yet  laden  deeper  with  her  woes  untold ; 
Japan  and  China  in  grotesque  array, 
And  all  the  enchanted  islands  of  Cathay  ! 

XIII. 

TO-DAY  the  other  dies. 

It  walked  in  humbler  guise, 

Nor  stood  where  all  men's  eyes 

Were  fixed  upon  it. 
Earth  may  not  pause  to  lay 

A  wreath  upon  its  bier, 
Nor  the  world  heed  to-day 

Our  dead  that  lieth  here ! 
Yet  well  they  loved  each  other — 
It  and  its  greater  brother. 
To  loftiest  stature  grown, 
Each  earned  its  own  renown; 
Each  sought  of  Time  a  crown, 
And  each  has  won  it. 


174  VERMONT. 

XIV. 

BUT  what  to  us  are  Centuries  dead, 
And  rolling  Years  forever  fled, 
Compared  with  thee,  O  grand  and  fair 

Vermont — our  goddess-mother? 
Strong  with  the  strength  of  thy  verdant  hills, 
Fresh  with  the  freshness  of  mountain-rills, 
Pure  as  the  breath  of  the  fragrant  pine, 
Glad  with  the  gladness  of  youth  divine, 
Serenely  thou  sittest  throned  to-day 
Where  the  free  winds  that  round  thee  play 
Rejoice  in  thy  waves  of  sun-bright  hair, 

O  thou,  our  glorious  mother ! 
Rejoice  in  thy  beautiful  strength  and  say, 

Earth  holds  not  such  another! 
Thou  art  not  old  with  thy  hundred  years, 
Nor  worn  with  toil,  or  care,  or  tears; 
But  all  the  glow  of  the  summer  time 
Is  thine  to-day  in  thy  glorious  prime! 
Thy  brow  is  fair  as  the  winter  snows, 
With  a  stately  calm  in  its  still  repose; 


VERMONT. 

While  the  breath  of  the  rose  the  wild  bee  sips 

Half-mad  with  joy,  cannot  eclipse 

The  marvelous  sweetness  of  thy  lips ; 

And  the  deepest  blue  of  the  laughing  skies 

Hides  in  the  depths  of  thy  fearless  eyes, 

Gazing  afar  over  land  and  sea 

Wherever  thy  wandering  children  be  ! 

Fold  on  fold, 

Over  thy  form  of  grandest  mold, 

Floweth  thy  robe  of  forest  green, 

Now  light,  now  dark,  in  its  emerald  sheen. 

Its  broidered  hem  is  of  wild  flowers  rare, 

With  feathery  fern-fronds  light  as  air 

Fringing  its  borders.     In  thy  hair 

Sprays  of  the  pink  arbutus  twine, 

And  the  curling  rings  of  the  wild  grape  vine. 

Thy  girdle  is  woven  of  silver  streams; 

Its  clasp  with  the  opaline  luster  gleams 

Of  a  lake  asleep  in  the  sunset  beams ; 

And,  half  concealing 

And  half  revealing, 

Floats  over  all  a  veil  of  mist 

Pale  tinted  with  rose  and  amethyst! 


176  VERMONT. 

» 

XV. 

RISE  up,  O  noble  mother  of  great  sons, 

Worthy  to  rank  among  earth's  mightiest  ones, 

And  daughters  fair  and  beautiful  and  good, 

Yet  wise  and  strong  in  loftiest  womanhood, — 

Rise  from  thy  throne,  and  standing  far  and  high 

Outlined  against  the  blue,  adoring  sky, 

Lift  up  thy  voice,  and  stretch  thy  loving  hands 

In  benediction  o'er  these  waiting  lands ! 

Take  thou  our  fealty !  at  thy  feet  we  bow, 

Glad  to  renew  each  oft-repeated  vow ! 

No  costly  gifts  we  bring  to  thee  to-day; 

No  votive  wreaths  upon  thy  shrine  we  lay; 

Take  thou  our  hearts,  then  ! — hearts  that  fain  would  be 

From  this  day  forth,  O  goddess,,  worthier  thee! 


A  LAST  WORD. 

WHERE  will  it  go  to  reach  thine  ears  ? 

My  father,  thou  dost  wear 
Somewhere  beyond  the  stars  to-night 

Thy  crown  of  silver  hair. 

Somewhere  thou  art.     No  wandering  ghost 
In  vast,  vague  realms  of  space — 

But  thine  own  self,  majestic,  fair, 
In  thine  appointed  place. 

By  one  long  look  thy  soul  replied 

When  last  I  cried  to  thee, 
As  thou  wert  drifting  out  of  sight 

Upon  the  unknown  sea; 

And  well  I  know  that  thou  wouldst  turn 

Even  from  joys  divine, 
23  177 


1 78  A   LAST  WORD. 

If  but  thy  listening  ears  could  hear 
One  faltering  word  of  mine. 

Yet,  knowing  this,  I  cannot  lay 
My  book  upon  thy  knee, 

Saying,  "  O  father,  once  again 
I  bring  my  sheaves  to  thee !  " 


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